


The Right Number

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Poisoning, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Costumes, Drunk Texting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Halloween, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Sandor has a potty mouth, Sorry guys I had to do it, Texting, drunk, more texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 87,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: When a wrong number leads to a chance meeting, drama ensues.Sansa works at a children's museum and Sandor is a knife maker. But hey, opposites can attract, right?Heavy on the texting, but I hope you still enjoy :-)





	1. June 3, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something new! Chapters will be according to dates, so some long, some short - I'll add notes about this at the beginning of the chapters.
> 
> And as always, thank you for reading!
> 
> And thanks to the wonderful Ms. LadyCleganeOfTheNorth for the equally wonderful beta duty <3

> Sansa: Hello!
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Hello**
> 
> Sansa: How are you doing?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: good, u?**
> 
> Sansa: I'm great! Just wanted to say hi and tell you I had a great time on Friday.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: i did too... whp's this?**
> 
> Sansa: It's Sansa, the girl from the bar... Who is this?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: i think u have the wrong # … but hello sansa**
> 
> Sansa: … Ummm
> 
> Sansa: This is 907-555-0176 … right?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: yes**
> 
> Sansa: Is this Warren?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: no**
> 
> Sansa: Were you by any chance at Captain Joe's on Friday night?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: … no**
> 
> Sansa: Well …
> 
> Sansa: I'm sorry
> 
> Sansa: I must have gotten the number wrong

_Figures_ , thought Sansa. She meets a nice, cute guy; they seem to hit it off, and he just gives her the wrong number. She couldn't catch a break in the dating scene.

Friday night was really fun, too. Her sister Arya had gotten a raise at her waitressing job, despite being the most foul-mouth waitress Sansa was sure had ever worked at the Diamond Diner, and Sansa had taken her out to celebrate. After all, that's what big sisters did—especially since Arya's birthday had just past.

Sansa remembered doing something similar on her 21st birthday, though she hadn't gotten nearly as drunk as Arya did Friday. So when it was time to cut her sister off she'd told the guy—Warren—that she wouldn't mind seeing him again. She had chalked up his moment of hesitation to her sudden departure, not his unwillingness to part with his phone number.

_Crap_. Struck out again. Story of her life.

She either attracted losers who mooched off their mom, guys who didn't have an adventurous bone in their body (or guys with _too many_ adventurous bones), or grabby guys who thought a first date was an invitation to hit third base. She couldn't begin to count the number of guys she'd been on dates with. Feeling certain she had dated most of the men in Fairbanks, a city of barely 100,000, Sansa was sure she was running out of men.

Okay, not quite but seriously— _so many dates_! She had been set up by her mom, her sister, even her brothers had given it a go. So far, no one had made her feel the way she wanted to feel on a date—respected, happy, hopeful.

She was 23. Throughout her childhood and teen years she had thought she'd be married with kids by now. She envisioned a nice house, a great husband, a dog and a cat, and the minivan to truck around her growing hoard of children.

Instead she was a single college graduate, working as a coordinator at a children's museum, avid reader and listener of music, perpetual virgin, and she spent most of her weekends hanging out at her parents' house in the hills North of Fairbanks. Sometimes she felt doomed to be this person forever.

Which is why she'd felt so hopeful when she had met Warren. Warren—taller than her by a couple inches (which was always nice, as she wasn't exactly short for a woman), with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. He'd had a nice smile and she thought they hit it off nicely. He was an accountant—good, safe, secure kind of profession—and said he liked to read.

Sansa wondered now how much of that was true.

She closed her eyes and looked down at her phone again. Texting a stranger—what a joke she was. Talk about a blow to her self-esteem.

The vintage rose clock on the wall of her small office read 4:23pm. _Almost time to go home for the day_ , she thought thankfully. And then, _home to my empty apartment_. Ahhh, good ol' reality.

The older she got, the more being single chapped her hide. She knew people from school who already had a handful of kids and who were happily married (or some, not married), and others who swore they would never have kids and liked the single lifestyle. Like Margaery, her hair dresser friend who seemed to be with a different guy every weekend—like, _with_ a different guy. Sansa had lost track of how many penises she'd heard about.

Her mom told her not to worry about it, that fate would drop the perfect guy in her lap when it was time for her to find him. Catelyn Stark, ever the optimist, insisted that 23 was young enough to not worry about those things.

That's where Sansa usually pointed out that not only did Catelyn have two kids at that age—Sansa and her older brother Robb—but she was also pregnant with her younger sister, Arya.

Catelyn would say, "Yes, well... Are you staying for dinner?" And the answer to that was inevitably yes, Sansa was staying, and she was trying to not be jealous of her mom's past.

The thought of children pained Sansa. She put a hand on her stomach, wondering for the thousandth time what it would feel like to have a baby growing inside her. She really hadn't met anyone who was open to talking about the experience, in part because Sansa was shy about asking. And she felt her mother kept mum on the subject because she knew it always made Sansa morose and quiet.

What was this urge inside her to settle down? To have children and grow a home? She suspected it had something to do with her parents—Ned and Catelyn Stark were a love match, had been since they had met when Catelyn was a freshman in high school and Ned had returned from active duty, a ten-year military veteran visiting with his childhood friend Edmure, Catelyn's brother.

Sansa thought it was a truly beautiful tale—Catelyn too young but Ned smitten anyway, and they had dated for the longest time before finally eloping the day she turned 18. She was already pregnant, which Sansa never failed to point out to her mom to make her blush. But Ned was as in love today with Catelyn as he had been back when he was 28 and Catelyn was a 17-year-old high school junior.

Smiling fondly at the memory of how many times she'd asked Catelyn to retell that story, she began to put away the paperwork that was scattered around her meticulously kept desk. It was a trick she learned from her mom—clean in the evening so you could wake to a fresh, tidy day. It carried over to her apartment as well, always neat as a pin.

That night at her apartment, as she was sitting on her small couch with the TV, keeping it on just for background noise, she scrolled through her phone. That text message conversation popped up when she hit the Messages app to text Arya, and Sansa reread it.

Whoever the person on the other end of the line was, they probably knew what had happened, the way she'd asked their whereabouts on Friday. _Way to go, Sansa. They know you were desperate_.

Deciding to not dwell on it, she pulled up Arya's name and texted her sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> No, I don't actually know Ned and Catelyn's ages, but I'm going for cute romance, and not researched-for-accuracy.


	2. August 21, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any formatting tips when copying and pasting from Google Docs (complete with blockquote, b and i html tags), they would be appreciated. My fingers hurt - this was a nightmare.
> 
> Oh, and Sandor is a sarcastic drunk <3

Sandor couldn't wait to leave his shop. Normally he was engrossed in the creation of a new knife design, but today he'd had too many distractions, and had botched a custom order earlier. Even working on a new design he'd been tinkering with hadn't cheered him up. And he knew his half-empty bottle of whiskey was waiting for him on the kitchen counter just inside his cabin.

First it had been a broken alarm clock, so he'd been forced to put that on his shopping list to give to Gendry at the end of the week. Then Gendry, his only employee, had called to say there was a customer there asking where his custom order was-the custom order that, according to Sandor's job board hanging on the wall of the shop, wasn't due to be finished for another two weeks.  _ That _ conversation hadn't gone well, with Sandor pulling out his order book to confirm the date and then offering to get the order finished earlier—for a rush fee, of course.

Talk about disgruntled customer.

Once the rush fee had been added to the invoice and the guy—according to Gendry—had left the store so fast that Gendry had been afraid the bells hanging from the door would chip the window, Sandor had set aside the rest of his work and began working on the man's custom hatchet.

That's when things went to shit. He couldn't get in to put the serrated edge on the underside of the hatchet's blade with his tools, so his only option was to spend the next three hours filing by hand. That meant that the serrated edge was only about an inch long, rather than the inch-and-a-half the customer requested.

Then he'd dropped it when he had turned to look for his protective work glasses, accidently bumping into an anvil, causing the hatchet to slip out of his hands. The steels he worked with weren't the soft shit that came from China on store-bought knives, but thick and beefy steel that refused to scratch or chip with that kind of fall.

Not so much the antler handle, which he hadn't finished yet. The fall cracked one side of the antler handle, rendering it useless. He would have flung the whole damned thing at the opposite wall had he not thought the other side would break as well.

So by then a four hour work day had turned into an eight hour day, on top of all the other tasks he'd set out for himself. It had sucked. Royally. He felt like hitting something.

Which is why, instead of getting physical, he had gone inside at six in the evening, taken two healthy shots of whiskey, and had gone outside to hook up his log splitter and stack wood in the back of his woodshed. Manual labor—more intense labor than standing in front of a grinder and leaning into a piece of steel—had always cleared his mind.

The evening was still fairly hot, about seventy-five degrees and a bit humid for the rainy season, but the sun was only coming through the tall spruce trees surrounding his property. He still poured sweat so he stripped off his plain t-shirt, letting the slight breeze blow over his sweaty skin. He couldn't feel the breeze against his scars, the area of skin that stretched from nearly the crown of his head, down his neck, to the top of his shoulder. But everywhere else it was sweet relief. He could swear the whiskey was leaking out his pores.

He didn't drink very often. Well, he drank every week but not every day. And tonight, he knew, he was going to follow up his wood chopping session with a whiskey dinner, some late night TV, and an early bedtime. Today was fucked, and he was ready for it to end.

When he had finally showered and sat in his recliner, shirtless and smelling like soap, a full tumbler of whiskey on the end table at his elbow, he took his phone out of his pocket to text Gendry that the hatchet would be ready for him to pick up tomorrow morning, by ten.

When he brought up the Messages app, her number was still on his screen from months ago. Gendry was the only name on his messages list, so that other conversation he'd had that night was still second, in the column of only two.

_ Stupid girl _ , he thought.  _ Sansa _ . The only reason a man would give a wrong number was if she wasn't that great of a catch. He hoped she understood that.

But an hour later, when the whiskey had taken ahold of his brain and his fingers weren't quite working the way they should, he brought up the conversation on his phone and began typing.

> **Sandor: do u know why he gave u the wrong #**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Excuse me?
> 
> **Sandor: warren**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Um, I think YOU have the wrong number
> 
> **Sandor: is this sansa**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Yes...
> 
> **Sandor: i was ur wrong #**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: What?

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and pinched them with his thumb and forefinger. Thinking through the alcohol haze, he felt like he had to get her to understand. He went back and checked the time stamp on their previous conversation.

> **Sandor: june 3 you texted me**
> 
> **Sandor: about warren and captain joes**

She didn't respond for a minute, long enough for him to take another long pull on his tumbler and to flip through the channels on his TV until he landed on a nature show.

> (907) 555-4005: I do remember now.
> 
> **Sandor: so? do u?**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Do I what?
> 
> **Sandor: know why he gave u wrong #**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: I think I figured it out
> 
> **Sandor: good**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Why was that important?

That made him think. He put the phone down on his thigh and leaned back against the recliner. Why  _ was _ it important? Was he really ready to tell a girl she needed to clean up her act? For all he knew, the guy Warren was a complete douche. But there was more in his mind telling him there must have been something unappealing about the girl. And yes, if he couldn't be in a relationship and happy— _ fucking scars _ , he thought—then he would help someone better themselves so that they might be.

Yes. That was it. Whiskey logic.

> **Sandor: what r u going to do about it**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: About what?!
> 
> **Sandor: about him giving u th wrong number**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Why do you assume I have to do something about it?
> 
> **Sandor: guys dont just give wrong numbrers**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: And you would know this because...?
> 
> **Sandor: im a guy**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: goodnight
> 
> **Sandor: no wait**
> 
> **Sansor: im trying 2 help u**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Are you kidding me?
> 
> **Sandor: no i am completely srous**
> 
> **Sandor: serius**
> 
> **Sandor: serious**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Are you drinking?
> 
> **Sandor: maybe**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: I'm not a project to be fixed. Go drunk text someone else. Goodnight.

_ Fuck _ . This wasn't going as he had pictured it.

> **Sandor: all im saying is lets figure out y he told u no**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: He didn't tell me no.
> 
> **Sandor: wrng # same thing**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: You are a horrible person.
> 
> **Sandor: why do u say that??????**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: You are telling me there's something wrong with me, that Warren told me no because there is something about me that needs to be fixed.
> 
> **Sandor: well**
> 
> **Sandor: if the shoe fits**
> 
> (907) 555-4005: Screw you
> 
> **Sandor: thank u but no**

She didn't text him back.  _ Just as well _ , his whiskey-slurred thoughts said. After all, he wasn't the only person in the world doomed to be alone for the rest of their life.

He set the phone down next to the tumbler and took another drink. Then he got up, stumbled a bit before holding out his hands to steady himself, and slowly made his way into the bathroom. He leaned both hands on the counter beside the sink and looked into the mirror as the overhead light lit him up like an operating table. It exposed him almost as badly.

_ Those scars _ , he mused. But then, he always stared at them when he looked into a mirror. They weren't a part of him, weren't supposed to be there. It was as though the man in the mirror could wipe a hand down his face and the scars would disappear. They never did, but that didn't stop him from trying it every damn time he was drunk.

His hair was long now, as it had been over a year since Gendry had given him a quick  _ pull it in a ponytail and cut off the bottom _ haircut. It was nearly to his armpits now.

_ Gendry _ . That man deserved a raise. And in his inebriated mind, Sandor decided that he would give him one. Two dollars, at least.

Gendry was his man-of-all-trades. Well, sort of. It was an interesting business arrangement they had—not only did Gendry man the shop without Sandor's intrusion, working six days a week and sometimes seven when he heard about an extra load of tourists coming in during the summer months. On top of all that, he also did all of Sandor's shopping (except for liquor—Sandor got that himself at the seedy corner liquor store a few miles from his cabin), and the occasional haircut. It was an arrangement that had suited both men for years, as Sandor actually did pay Gendry quite well.

Plus Sandor often let Gendry use his credit card for gas for his car even on weekends, sometimes for his own groceries (the man didn't eat much, after all), and for the occasional date night.

Three dollars. It was settled.

But shit, he'd have to get his beard trimmed soon. Not that he had anyone to impress, but even Sandor had to admit he looked like a 35-year-old homeless mountain man that slept in a cave. He probably had a whole meal's worth of food stuck in that thing. Maybe a bird or two.

He snorted at the picture, like a man who'd been asleep for a hundred years, one of them out of those old Disney films his mom had liked so much.

Ah, his mom. Long dead but not forgotten. What a sweet woman she had been. She had withered away to nothing under the care of his father and brother.

_ Shit _ , he thought. It had been a long time since he thought about his family—and he used that term loosely.  _ No sense in dwelling on that crap now, _ he decided.

He resumed his seat at the recliner and watched the rest of a show on baby moose.

His cabin was pretty bare, with the living room sporting an old loveseat and a recliner. The walls were empty, though he did have a desk in the corner of the living room where he worked on all things related to his business. As usual, it was covered in a scatter of papers and sticky notes, tax forms and custom orders. It was a wonder he ever kept everything sorted out. There was a bottle of glue for who-knows-what, a stapler on its side and an empty tape dispenser, a pair of old headphones, an old mug full of mismatched pens and a few unsharpened pencils, and some rocks he'd picked up outside the liquor store the last time he'd gone, for the simple reason that he'd liked the way they looked.

Also taking up space in his living room was a big stereo on the floor beside the TV. On top were several stacks of CDs in no particular order, Sandor having never gotten into downloading music. There were movies scattered on the TV stand underneath the TV, and his coffee table was an absolute mess—dirty dishes, mug rings on the glass, more papers, a few movies, and a pair of socks that may or may not have been clean.

The back of his loveseat and recliner had clothes draped over them, though they also were in an indeterminate state of cleanliness.

Though he was in the cabin frequently, Gendry, however, drew the line at being his housekeeper so Sandor resigned himself to a cluttered and disorganized existence. Gendry would often come by after work and the two would sit at the small kitchen table (after Sandor had cleared half for them to have room to work), and discuss knife designs, custom orders, how the shop was going, and what items Gendry wanted to buy for it or do to it. Gendry would sometimes bring sketches he had done during slow periods at the shop and Sandor knew it wouldn't be long before Gendry's enthusiasm for knives spread into him learning how to make them.

The moose show was just ending when Sandor decided he'd had enough. He turned off the TV and the lights and got himself ready for bed. He had grabbed his phone to use as an alarm clock, but it wasn't until the following morning when he turned his phone on to look at the time—an hour before his alarm—that he remembered the conversation. It was the first thing that popped up on his screen when he swiped it open, and he groaned at the things he had written.

Because, of course there might be something wrong with the woman—probably  _ was _ , in fact—but even he knew, in his now sober mind, that you just didn't come out and  _ say _ that.  _ Fuck _ .

But should he do damage control? He immediately decided that no, he was going to let it drop. It was likely that he would never speak to her again, would have no reason to contact her in the future. It was a true wrong number, and he was going to stick with that.


	3. May 17, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! They're short, and I just can't do that to you!
> 
> And thanks for reading my little ditty! I like these two people <3

Sansa was having a crappy day. Since starting her new position as director of the children's museum, she'd been busy. Like  _ really _ busy. Although the position came with a hefty raise in salary, it also came with added responsibilities and less time playing with little kids. Of course she had known this when she'd applied for it, but she hadn't taken into account the toll this would take on her mental wellbeing.

So when she was confronted—on a Monday, no less—with two complaints about a lack of professionalism in a repeat offender employee, a leaking water play table, and another employee just dropping off the face of the earth on the day she was supposed to host three very large birthday parties, Sansa had left with a very real sense of being at the end of her rope.

The rude employee, she could handle. She told him he had one more chance, and that if he acted in an unprofessional manner again, he'd be fired.

The employee who never showed up was fired. It wasn't the first time this young woman had done this, and then showed up the next day as though  _ nothing _ was wrong. Sansa had had enough of that. She needed reliable employees in the children's museum.

The birthday parties had in fact been  _ amazing _ . Although this was no longer part of her job description, she had to admit that being clobbered by adorable children ranging in ages from infants just learning how to walk to rambunctious five- and six-year-olds had been good for her soul.

That is, until she'd realized the parents had no idea how to be courteous, polite, or helpful in any manner. Sansa cleaned up so many spilled drinks, smeared cupcakes, tipped-over craft bins, and sandbox messes that by the time she clocked out for the day, her back was aching and she had a migraine.  _ Those poor kids _ , she thought as she gingerly stepped off the bus at the bus stop on the corner of her street.  _ They'll never grow up to be humble and kind adults with parents as clueless as those. _

But it was not her job to teach the parents how to parent. And, of course, she knew that this time at the museum might have been their only breather, their only small break, for a week or more in raising small children. Many of them were stay-at-home moms, so with her hands braced against her lower back, she walked the short distance home reminding herself that the day was over and tomorrow she could start fresh.

It wasn't until she'd made her small dinner of leftover lasagna from her mom, had changed into her nightgown, and had settled in to watch a PBS show on Scotland that she found the world was not going to let her mind rest today.

> **(907) 555-0176: Hello**

Sansa looked at her phone, and from deep within the shadows she knew—just  _ knew _ —who that number belonged to. All the irritation from their last conversation, and the hurt and confusion, seeped back into her mind, making her head pound.

She should have just not answered. She should have ignored it, ignored the man who had cut her down so cleanly the last time he had texted her. And she very well could have ignored it, had she not just had the most miserable day at work.

Tugging her auburn hair over one shoulder, she rested her elbows on her drawn up thighs and started typing.

> Sansa: You should not text me. Ever. After the things you said last time you're lucky I'm even replying. I don't know why you thought you should school me in finding out what it was that turned Warren off but you know what? I never did. Because I'm a grown woman and I like who I am. So take your drunk ramblings, wrap them up in a shiny box with a big, gorgeous bow on top, and shove it up your ass.

_ There. _ She grimaced as she reread her words but they'd had to be said.

Okay, maybe not the  _ shove it up your ass _ part, but she needed to get her message across. He was an appalling individual to tell her such mean things, and in all honesty, it had taken her awhile to get over them—had actually dwelled on what he'd said for a couple months. And—totally unrelated, she had insisted to herself at the time—she had sworn off dating. She hadn't been on a date in almost a year. She knew now what kind of mark this guy had left on her life, and she was done being weighed down by the insecurities he'd placed in her mind.

So when her phone rang out with the chirping of early morning robins on a spring day alerting her to a new message, she ignored it. She watched her show on beautiful Scotland and ignored it again when it chirped at her.

She got up to get herself a cup of tea and some ibuprofen, and turned her phone on vibrate when it chirped a third time.

There was some silence and she nearly got through her show before it started to vibrate, over and over again until she was sure she had at least six text messages.

It was doubt that they were all from him that drove her to pick up the phone. She in fact snatched it up from the coffee table and pulled up the Messages app, seeing that there indeed was one recently from Arya, asking if Sansa had any plans for this weekend because she was going to bring home her new boyfriend to show him off to their parents.

Sansa texted back that there was no way in Hell she was going to miss that, and then she exited out of Arya's conversation to see nine texts waiting for her from the rude guy. Grudgingly, she opened that conversation thread, reading the first three texts that had come through from him.

> **(907) 555-0176: Sansa, I apologize for how I treated you in the past.**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: It wasn't right to scold you for another man's thoughtlessness.**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Please acknowledge that you're getting this**

Sansa pursed her lips. She hadn't expected an apology. In fact, that had come way out from left field. She also hadn't expected him to call her by her name, but then, she'd told him her name when she thought he was Warren.

And, she noticed, he wasn't misspelling his words. And he used punctuation, correct grammar, capitalizations... The next couple of texts explained it.

> **(907) 555-0176: This isn't drunk rambling. I have been sober for two months. You, for some reason, were the only person I texted when I was drunk. I'm sorry.**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: And I'm in a 12-step program where step four is to apologize for any wrong-doings.**

Well, that was something. Sansa didn't see any reason why someone would lie about that kind of thing. And she had an inkling of happiness for him that he was sober. That was always the right choice, in her opinion.

But still, his words had been hurtful. It wasn't every day that someone said something to her that hurt for months after the fact. She had even told Arya about it, had actually cried a couple times when she dwelled on whether or not what he said was true.

Arya, of course, had always said the guy was an ass and didn't know what he was talking about. She really had a great sister.

> **(907) 555-0176: I won't be texting you anymore. I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and have a good night.**

_ Well, good _ , Sansa thought. She was happy that he was sober, happy that he was getting treatment, but... good riddance. This was still the man who had treated her like an ignorant little girl. She was happy to end communication with him.

Then, as she got ready for bed, she started to feel a pull towards what he had said before, his request that she acknowledge what he had said. Admittedly, it was hard for her to even contemplate texting him back because only she knew how many tears she had shed at his words.

But there had been an honesty in them, and she felt that, although she owed him nothing, the  _ nice _ thing to do would be to acknowledge him.

> Sansa: Thank you for the apology.

Much to her surprise, he texted back right away.

> **(907) 555-0176: You're welcome. I'm sorry for texting you so late at night.**
> 
> Sansa: It's okay, I was up.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I'd rather not shove those drunk ramblings up my ass, but I would take them back if I could. I was out of line.**

Sansa burst out laughing. She hadn't expected that. She cringed that the words he had cued in on were the only words she had questioned saying.

> Sansa: lol yes, well... I had a bad day at work, but your apology is no less appreciated.
> 
> Sansa: You were out of line, I agree. But you gave me a lot to think about.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Shit, don't tell me you listened to that crap I said.**
> 
> Sansa: No, no. Well yes, I did. It hurt, quite a bit, actually. But I came to the conclusion that I like who I am.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Good**

The lull in conversation was at a time when she should really be getting back to bed, but she was curious now—about the lack of alcohol in his life, about texting someone who wasn't Arya, about  _ him _ ..

> Sansa: So... sobriety, huh?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Yeah. Sobriety.**
> 
> Sansa: How are you liking it?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: It's different. A bad day means I go for a really long run instead of grabbing the bottle.**
> 
> Sansa: That's good, though.
> 
> Sansa: May I ask what made you want to pursue that path?

There was a pause, and Sansa wondered if he was thinking of how to answer her. She took a sip of her tea and put it down as her phone chirped at her.

> **(907) 555-0176: I fell while drunk, and I got banged up pretty bad.**
> 
> Sansa: That sucks. How bad?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Concussion, thought I broke my arm. It just hurt like a bitch.**
> 
> Sansa: Ouch, that does sound bad. Are you okay now, though?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I am.**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Just learned not to fall head first into an anvil, is all.**
> 
> Sansa: Geez, that sounds like it hurt.
> 
> **Sansa** : Why do you have an anvil? That's not something people just keep around, unless they're Wylie Coyote.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I don't know of any road runners...**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: But I am a metal worker**
> 
> Sansa: Neat. Like building framing and tanks and whatever else metal workers do?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: No, not like that. I'm a knife maker.**
> 
> Sansa: Oh, even more neat. I have a sister who would die if she knew I was talking to someone who makes knives.
> 
> Sansa: Actually, a brother as well.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: It's not all glamor and shiny things.**
> 
> Sansa: No? How so?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: It's hot, with a forge, for one.**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: And I have grinder scars all over my hands.**
> 
> Sansa: Then why do it?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I'm good at it.**
> 
> Sansa: I'm good at chewing my nails but I don't do it for a living.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Chewing nails doesn't make money.**
> 
> Sansa: You haven't seen me chew my nails.

She inserted a few winky emoji's here and smiled at her wittiness. God, it was late.

> Sansa: I'm going to stop myself from making any more bad jokes and call it a night.
> 
> Sansa: It was nice chatting with you.
> 
> Sansa: Again, thank you for the apology. Means a lot.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: No problem**
> 
> Sansa: And good luck with the sobriety. I mean it.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Thanks. Goodnight**


	4. October 31, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess Sandor's inner monologue has a lot of cussing in it. My apologies. It's all his fault.

Sandor was fucked. He'd sent a message on Facebook to his community group that his house would be open for trick-or-treaters.  _ What the hell was he thinking?! _ He stood in his sterile bathroom, staring at his reflection for the fourth time today, thinking about and practicing what he was going to say.

"Like my movie makeup?" Fuck no.

"Argh, I'm a pirate." What the fuck.

"Here's your fucking candy." He wished.

Step seven. Fucking step seven.  _ Embrace humility. Practice modesty. Moral defects. _ Fucking hell.

His group leader, EB, had talked him into doing this—had said, "It'll be good for you, having random people show up at your doorstep." When Sandor had nearly snarled his discomfort at the idea, EB had just reminded him, "Sobriety takes stepping out of your comfort zone, and your comfort zone is isolation." He'd gone on about how Sandor needed to start socializing, and  _ Fuck the scars, Sandor—they don't define you _ . Ah, EB and his eloquent ways.

But EB hadn't suffered the humiliation he had for decades over having half his face scarred, missing hair, most of his ear, and being treated like a second-class citizen by all the kids he knew. EB didn't get the horrified looks from children when he went to town, or the  _ Shhh, don't stare at that man _ from parents who only acknowledged his existence by way of telling their kids to avoid him.

Still, when the group leader had said this was the universe dropping an opportunity in his lap, Sandor couldn't help but feel an inkling of agreement sneaking in under the door to his heart. Fuck knocking, this shit was too sneaky. Before he could talk himself out of it he'd brought up Facebook mobile and sent the fucking death sentence to the group.

So here he stood, staring at the dumbest fucker he'd ever seen in his bathroom mirror, wondering what the hell he was going to do.

First kid who screams and runs, he was slamming his door. No fucking way was he going to go through this.

_ Shit shit shit _ .

He took out his phone, ready to call Gendry and ask him what he thought Sandor should do, but he remembered that Gendry was out on a date. He was almost desperate enough to text the bastard about abandoning him in his time of need when he saw on his phone, under Gendry's name, another number.

_ Fuck _ . How did you text a veritable stranger with whom you'd only had a decently humane conversation once, about a totally ridiculous scenario?

Sandor turned in his small bathroom and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on his knees.  _ You just do it and get it over with _ , he thought, and he sent off the first thing that came to mind.

> **Sandor: Sansa**

Well, it was a start. Barely half a minute later she responded, and in that time he'd entered her name into his phone. This was  _ serious _ .

> Sansa: Hello again
> 
> **Sandor: Do you have a minute?**

That was the last thing he wanted to say, politeness being the last thing he wanted to exhibit. But he needed to tread lightly, lest she decide not to help him based on his gruffness.

> Sansa: As a matter of fact, I do have a few to spare. What's up?
> 
> **Sandor: I have a dilemma and I was wondering if you could help me figure it out**

Another pause. He felt like biting  _ his _ nails while he waited for her to respond.

> Sansa: I could try. Shoot.
> 
> **Sandor: I signed up for trick-or-treating tonight, will leave my porch light on and all that crap.**
> 
> **Sandor: I even have a massive bowl of candy**
> 
> Sansa: Massive bowl of candy. I don't see an issue there...
> 
> **Sandor: The issue is that I don't have a costume.**
> 
> Sansa: What do you want me to do about that?!
> 
> Sansa: And besides, why would you need one? You're just handing out candy.

_ Fuck _ . This is where he'd have to tell her.  _ Deep breath _ . Before typing he put the phone down and wiped his hands roughly from the center of his face backwards, over his cheeks and into his hair, feeling under the palm of his right hand the bumps and divots left by the burn scars, the bump that used to be his ear, and the jarring lack of hair. He let out a fast, heavy sigh and picked up his phone.

> **Sandor: I need to cover my face**
> 
> **Sandor: I have scars, and I don't want them to scare the kids.**
> 
> **Sandor: And I don't know what to do**

There, it was out. In the open. Where he most didn't want this to be.

He hadn't expected this whole shit show scenario, but he found that getting out to someone he didn't know that he had scars had been hard, harder than he ever thought it would be. He waited just a moment before she responded.

> Sansa: Do you have a bandana? Or a mask? Or an eye patch? I don't know what kind of scars they are so I don't know what will cover them.
> 
> Sansa: Would you need a half-face mask, a full-face, etc
> 
> **Sandor: Full-face. It's one side of my face, but top to bottom.**
> 
> Sansa: Okay, what would you have that would cover your face? Maybe a bandana with eye holes?
> 
> Sansa: Or a helmet! Do you have a motorcycle helmet?

_ His welding helmet. _ Fucking genius.

> **Sandor: I do have a helmet, and I think I can put together a costume with it.**
> 
> **Sandor: Wait a minute**

Sandor was out the door of his cabin and unlocking his shop door in moments, and soon he was propping his cell phone up on his workbench after setting the self-timer and standing in front of it before the bell sounded that it had taken his picture.

He attached it to the message and sent it.

> **Sandor: There. What do you think? Is it doable?**
> 
> Sansa: Geez, you look like you walked out of a horror movie. Is that your real hair?!

Sandor slipped off the welding hood and put it on the workbench, and then propped himself up on the edge of his stool with one foot cocked on the bottom rung.

> **Sandor: Yeah, I need a haircut.**
> 
> Sansa: Seriously, hold a chainsaw and you'll scare teenagers away.
> 
> **Sandor: Fuck.**
> 
> Sansa: But honestly, it sounds like it may be your best bet. Are you going to go for it?
> 
> **Sandor: Yes, I guess so. I don't have anything else.**
> 
> Sansa: Do me a favor and text me tonight, let me know how it goes?
> 
> **Sandor: I will. Thanks, Sansa. I owe you.**
> 
> Sansa: Just try and have a good time. Talk to you tonight!

Well. That was that. He was going to go through with this, no matter what.  At least she'd helped him come up with a costume. It was better than what he had been able to do on his own. And he was glad she offered her time to help him. He'd be completely fucked without her.

It wasn’t that he thought he could hide the scars forever. He knew that according to step seven he'd have to feel the discomfort of what he had used alcohol to hide, and in his case that was, according to EB, lack of companions. Lack of socializing. Hiding from the world because of his scars. EB even used himself as an example— _ he _ wasn't afraid of Sandor's scars, and there were even a couple men in the group with scars of their own and they seemed to accept him at face value, no pun intended.

So... Maybe there was hope for the rest of the world. He was holding his breath, of course, but... Maybe.


	5. October 31, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for reading!  
> .  
> ..  
> ...  
> Soooooo muuuuuuch editiiiiiiing...
> 
> Regarding those odd spaces in Sandor's phone number - just ignore them. I'll edit them out, then preview the draft, and it adds spaces between paragraphs. So I edit out the spaces between paragraphs and it adds spaces in his phone number. I give up. Technology fail.

Sansa put her phone down and looked up at the TV screen. It showed a gorgeous scene, a drone video of a mountain lake with fertile green slopes and crystal clear waters. It was absolutely gorgeous.

But not beautiful enough to distract her from the text conversation she'd just had.

She stared at the TV, though her mind was focused on the man she had just spoken with. He was so different than the one who had first drunk-texted her that, had he not admitted to being a drunk, and now getting treatment for it, she would have wondered if he was the same man.

She made a mental note to ask him his name—that was, if he texted this evening. Though with as unsure of his current predicament as he was, she was almost certain he would.

Sansa wondered if his text would come while she was still out with Margaery and Dany. Having only agreed to go with the other two women because she had nothing else to do on Halloween night and no reason to be up in the morning, she knew she would likely excuse herself from whatever she was doing and find a quiet spot to text him back. And, seeing as how it was a Friday, she didn't have to be up early the next morning.

She stood to look at her costume again in the mirror hanging on her bedroom door. She had decided to be a cat once she found the fancy gray velvet dress at the thrift store last week. It covered her from knee to wrist, with a wide boat neck rimmed in fake gray fur. The cuffs and hem also sported matching fur, and she had known that Dany happened to have a pair of calf-high boots that would match perfectly. She completed the outfit with her cable-knit gray leggings and a black headband with gray felt ears that she made herself.

The only thing she wasn't wearing now was the gray mask that was sitting on her coffee table, and before she left she'd color her nose and draw whiskers with an eyeliner pencil. Easy peasy.

Margaery and Dany wanted to go bar-hopping and Sansa had agreed to tag along as the designated driver. There were quite a few bars in a short radius downtown, so Sansa knew she was in for a long night.

When the ladies arrived they left their cars in the back of the parking lot and all three of them piled into Sansa's sensible Subaru wagon. What happened after was certainly a night Sansa would remember forever.

It started with Margaery deciding karaoke was a good idea at the first bar, and, completely sober, she regaled the audience with a fairly bad rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

The second bar was much the same except Margaery had had a couple drinks and found herself on stage with a grabby guy named Terrence. Terrence seemed to take a liking to Margaery's butt so Sansa and Dany extricated their friend from that predicament and moved onto the next bar.

The third bar was where they were then accosted by three drunk college guys who thought the ladies' costumes of cat, sexy Snow White, and sexy Tinkerbell would go well with their not-so-sexy Shrek, not-so-sexy Chewbacca, and somewhat-sexy Deadpool. When Margaery decided to hop on Deadpool like white on rice, Sansa barely managed to wrangle a now buzzed Dany into helping her pry the two apart so they could move on.

The haunted house was fun, although Sansa had to admit she very nearly peed herself quite a few times. She had even thought that _Texting Dude_ would have been perfect as the guy at the end who ran at them with a chainsaw to chase them away from the building. She had to tell him about that, she decided.

By the time both Dany and Margaery were drunk, Sansa's activity tracker read well over ten thousand steps for the day, which was high for her normal five to six thousand. So, when they reached the last bar, Sansa sat them in a small booth in the back, where she could keep an eye on her very buzzed friends while she went to order a round of non-alcoholic drinks.

It was while she was waiting for the drinks that she received a text, at 11:06pm.

> **(907) 555-0** **176: Okay, it's done.**
> 
> Sansa: Hey!!
> 
> Sansa: So, how'd it go? Make anyone pee their pants?
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: Only three kids and one mom**
> 
> Sansa: Really?!
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: Possibly. She didn't say anything but held her chest while they walked back down my driveway.**
> 
> Sansa: lol But overall...?
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Overall it was okay. Good, I suppose.**
> 
> Sansa: Did you have fun?
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Well, mostly not.**

Sansa frowned at this. That sounded sad.

> **(907)** **555-0176: I'm not comfortable around kids.**
> 
> Sansa: Ah, because of the scar thing?
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: No, because of the kids running away from me screaming thing.**
> 
> Sansa: Did that happen tonight?
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: I was wearing a mask, so if they ran away from me screaming it's because I was a scary character.**
> 
> Sansa: lol Like I said...
> 
> **(907) 555-017** **6: I know, I know, but thanks for helping me.**
> 
> Sansa: You're welcome.

The drinks came then so Sansa brought them back to the table and sat on the opposite side from where Dany and Margaery had their heads together, giggling.

> **(907)** **555-0176: So how was your Halloween?**
> 
> Sansa: It's not over yet
> 
> Sansa: I'm the DD for two of my friends, and we're at bar number... 4? 5? They're pretty wasted, I think I might convince them it's 2am and bring them home after this.
> 
> **(907) 555-0** **176: Did you not have fun?**
> 
> Sansa: At first it was, but really, when is being a DD fun?
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: So why did you go?**

Sansa looked over at the other two women and smiled.

> Sansa: I like knowing people are having fun, I guess.
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Did you wear a costume?**
> 
> Sansa: Meow ;-)
> 
> **(907) 555-0176** : This is where I say, I showed you mine, now you show me yours
> 
> Sansa: lol okay, okay.

She laughed to herself, but attached a selfie they had taken in the bathroom mirror of the first bar, though she did crop out Margaery and Daenerys.

> **(907) 5** **55-0176: No, really. Send a pic of you.**
> 
> Sansa: lol what do you mean?
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: That's photoshop. You're really a fifty-year-old empty nester divorcee.**
> 
> Sansa: What?! Lmao you just made me snort my iced tea.
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Are you old enough to be going to bars?**
> 
> Sansa: I'm 24. How old are you?!
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: 36**
> 
> Sansa: Look who's the empty nester divorcee.
> 
> **(907) 555-0** **176: Ha. Never been married, never had kids (obviously).**
> 
> Sansa: Well, that makes two of us.
> 
> Sansa: What did you think of my costume?
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Cute. Why did you pick it?**
> 
> Sansa: Well, it's cold so the costume is warm, and it didn't cost much. Borrowed boots, leggings I had, $6 dress from Goodwill and a couple dollars in craft supplies to make ears and mask.
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: You're even cheaper than I am.**
> 
> Sansa: Again, with the tea up my nose.
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: lol**

Sansa laughed, wiping tea off her face. She looked up, suddenly realizing the other side of the table was extremely quiet. She was greeted with a tangled mess of light brown hair mixed with ice blonde, as both of her friends were facedown on the table, passed out. Sansa leaned her head back against the booth's seat and sighed. Then she snapped a photo of the top of her friends' heads and texted it to...

> Sansa: I just realized I still don't know YOUR name.
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Sandor, and nice photo. Your friends?**
> 
> Sansa: Yep. Time to get the babies home <3
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Okay, goodnight Sansa**
> 
> Sansa: Goodnight Sandor

It only took a bit of coaxing to get Dany and Margaery up and into the car, but when Sansa pulled up to their apartment, it was like having two very heavy toddlers in the back seat who had been lulled to sleep by the car ride. Both of them may wake up the following morning with red cheeks, thanks to the light smacks Sansa had to give them just to get their legs moving.

When she finally pulled up in front of her own apartment, she turned the car off and just sat, listening to the music that was still playing. She knew the radio would turn off as soon as she opened the door, so instead she closed her eyes, chuckling at how awkward the end of the evening was. But overall, they had had fun. Even she had to admit, the haunted house and all the costumes she had seen tonight had been pretty neat.

She would never understand the idea that many women took Halloween as an opportunity to dress slutty and to expose themselves more than they would on any other day. She couldn't count the number of slutty Disney characters she'd seen (including Dany and Margaery), or even women who had chosen to just wear see-through clothing. There had been a "fairy" that was really just a woman with a pair of wings, wearing a transparent tank top and white boy-short panties. The guy walking around with her very clearly acted like he was putting her on parade, and Sansa had wondered exactly where that woman's self-esteem was.

Just then her phone chirped at her, that soft, musical note of a robin's call. It was _Sandor_ . _That name_ , she thought, brows furrowed. _As mysterious as the man._

> **(907) 555-** **0176: Did you make it home okay?**
> 
> Sansa: Concerned? :-)
> 
> **(907) 555-** **0176: A young woman alone with two drunk friends? Yeah, just a bit.**
> 
> Sansa: Thank you, but yes, I am home. Sitting in my driveway.
> 
> Sansa: They cooperated after a couple good pats to the cheek. Tucked in bed, their car in my parking lot.
> 
> **(907** **) 555-0176: Good. Why are you just sitting in your car?**

Sansa chuckled quietly. He was full of questions.

> Sansa: I was thinking about all the sexy costumes I saw tonight, and thinking about what adults have turned Halloween into.
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: Ah, you mean like your friend? (You left part of her in the photo, I can see how short her skirt was).**
> 
> Sansa: Yes! Unfortunately I have to lump both of them in there as well.
> 
> **(907) 555-0** **176: You don't think your costume is sexy?**

Sansa stopped, looking at her phone screen. Was that a leading question? Or was he genuinely curious? She chose to answer like it was the latter.

> Sansa: I purposefully chose mine to be modest. I prefer it that way. The only skin I was showing was the tops of my shoulders and my neck.
> 
> Sansa: And I did get noticeably less attention from the men than what my friends did.

She wondered if he was going to say anything else about her costume but it was radio silence from his end. She brought up his photo on her phone to see if anything was sexy about his photo, although she knew she couldn't tease him about anything. It's not like he was shirtless under that welding apron.

> Sansa: Holy cow, how tall are you?

There was a pause before he answered.

> **(907** **) 555-0176: Why do you ask?**
> 
> Sansa: There is a door to the side of you in your photo, and you're the same size as the door. Either you have tiny doors or you're really tall.
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: 6' 6"**
> 
> Sansa: No wonder that mom peed her pants tonight.
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: How tall are you?**
> 
> Sansa: 5' 9"
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: I'm not much taller than you, then.**
> 
> Sansa: Yeah right lol

Sansa looked back at the photo, noting the combination of long black hair and outrageous height. Paired with his obviously muscular physique, she was confident he scared the pee out of plenty of kids tonight.

> Sansa: So honestly, was tonight bad? The trick-or-treaters?
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Not too bad. I can't say I had a good time but I guess that's because I was expecting the other shoe to drop the whole time.**
> 
> Sansa: And did it?
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: … No**

There was another lull in conversation. Sansa wondered if he would look like a black-haired Fabio, like a guy on the cover of those seedy romance novels she always saw in the store (and of the few that she had read...)

> Sansa: In terms of your recovery and Step 7, do you think it was a success?
> 
> **(90** **7) 555-0176: Well, I did it, so yeah, I suppose.**
> 
> Sansa: And the idea is to keep doing it?
> 
> **(90** **7) 555-0176: Yes.**
> 
> Sansa: What are you going to do next?
> 
> **(90** **7) 555-0176: I don't know. Group is Thursday night so I have five more days to find two other things.**
> 
> Sansa: You were supposed to do three?
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: Yes. Halloween was the simplest one. Kind of fell in my lap. I received a message from my community Facebook page about what to do if you want trick-or-treaters to come to your door.**
> 
> Sansa: Hmmm. That WOULD be easy.

She picked up her purse and opened her door to go into her building, texting while she walked.

> Sansa: So what is something you don't normally do, a social activity.
> 
> **(9** **07) 555-0176: Fuck, what DO I do, you mean.**
> 
> Sansa: lol What do you mean?
> 
> **(9** **07) 555-0176: I don't go out much. Ever. And actually, I haven't gone anywhere in two months, come to think of it.**
> 
> Sansa: What? Why not? What do you mean? How do you get your food?
> 
> **(90** **7) 555-0176: I have an employee.**
> 
> Sansa: You pay someone to grocery shop for you?
> 
> **(907** **) 555-0176: Not exactly.**

He didn't answer, and Sansa suddenly thought she may have made him uncomfortable. _Shoot_ , she shouldn't have shot off rapid fire questions like that. Again. She had done the same thing when he told her about his scars.

> Sansa: I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound rude. You are just a puzzle of a man.
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: It's okay, I'm not offended. I just don't talk to people, so I'm not used to explaining myself.**
> 
> Sansa: You're fairly verbose in text. But not in person?
> 
> **(907** **) 555-0176: No, not in person.**
> 
> Sansa: Hence the Shove Yourself Into Social Situations thing.
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: Yes**
> 
> Sansa: May I ask, what do you do for fun?
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: Fun?**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Well...**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I make knives**
> 
> Sansa: lol That's your job. What do you do for fun, things that you do for pleasure that do not make you money.

She entered her apartment and dropped her purse and mask on the corner of the counter before sitting down at the couch. She had time to turn the TV on and kick off the boots before he texted back.

> **(907) 5** **55-0176: I read, quite a bit. And I enjoy working outside. And like I said, I run now.**
> 
> Sansa: Nothing else?
> 
> **(907) 555-017** **6: I mean, during the summer I tend to work six days a week, usually for eight to ten hours a day.**
> 
> Sansa: That's a lot.
> 
> Sansa: Do you have any friends?
> 
> **(907) 5** **55-0176: One. The guy who does my grocery shopping.**
> 
> Sansa: That's not a friend, he's an employee.
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Well, he's both.**
> 
> Sansa: Does he know that?
> 
> **(907) 555-** **0176: What? Yes, of course he does. We actually spend quite a lot of time together.**
> 
> Sansa: Ah, so you're...?
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: What**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: WHAT, no, that's not what I meant. I'm attracted to women for fuck's sake.**
> 
> Sansa: Well, lol, you said yourself – you spend quite a lot of time with one MALE friend. A girl can wonder about something like that.
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: Don't wonder, woman. For crying out loud, no one has ever assumed that about me.**
> 
> Sansa: That's probably because you don't talk to anyone lol

He didn't respond right away, which was probably good because Sansa had a good laugh over that one. He'd made it sound like it was possible he and this employee might have _another_ arrangement. So, as it seemed they were getting to know each other, she thought she'd ask.

His response to her question was adorable.

She had time to change into her nightgown and robe before he responded again.

> **(907) 555-01** **76: You have a point, about not talking to people. Gendry is the only person I need in my life. I've been burned so many times, it's just not even funny.**
> 
> Sansa: Because of the scars, you mean?
> 
> **(907) 555-** **0176: Yeah.**
> 
> Sansa: I think you should give humanity a chance.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Why the hell should I do that. They didn't give me one.**
> 
> Sansa: Well, no... But there are people out there who don't give a rat's ass what your face looks like.
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: Just my body? I've heard that befor** e.
> 
> Sansa: What?! Lol no, that's not what I meant. God, have women been awful to you as well?!
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I have had several unpleasant experiences.**
> 
> Sansa: Good lord. You need to find some nice people to hang out with, build your social skills.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: I have the Thursday night group. Some decent men there.**
> 
> Sansa: Can I give you an assignment?
> 
> **(907) 555** **-0176: lol**
> 
> Sansa: I'm 100% serious...
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Well**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: What did you have in mind?**

_Score_. He was willing to consider something.

> Sansa: Ask one of them to coffee.
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: I can't do that.**
> 
> Sansa: Why not?!
> 
> **(907)** **555-0176: I'd have to go to a coffee shop.**
> 
> Sansa: Yes? You don't think you could do it?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Sansa, I haven't been to a public setting like that in years.**
> 
> Sansa: Okay, okay...
> 
> Sansa: Baby steps?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Yeah, baby steps.**
> 
> Sansa: Call me.

_Fuck_ . Oops, she swore. She never said the F word, and she clearly heard it in her mind then. She had thought those two words, _Call me_ , and somehow, they had ended up on the screen of her phone. Did she really want to? Talk on the phone to this man? This man, who had hurt her so badly?

Well, what had it been, a year and a half ago? He had obviously changed, since she didn't think he was lying to her. The way he spoke was too real, too honest to be a contrived conversation.

> **(907) 555-0** **176: Call you?**

His reply came after a couple minutes of silence. Nothing else, just his own two words.

 _Talk about nail biting_. That wasn't something she could take back. But he had opened up to her about his scars, his vulnerability showing in the way he spoke about easing into social situations. Being scared of scaring kids.

> Sansa: Yes. Call me.
> 
> **(907) 555-** **0176: Would you really want me to?**

_Gulp_. She opened her eyes wide, took a deep breath, held it while puffing out her cheeks and typed in a flurry of taps on the screen.

> Sansa: Of course I would.

She let out the breath in a _whoosh_ , and closed her eyes. How did she ever get so bold?

But that was a somewhat easy question to answer. Her life was dull. She actually wanted a bit of excitement. Going out to bars as a designated driver wasn't doing it for her. And being a museum director was fun and fulfilling, but her social life was... Well, her social life was her sister, her brothers and parents, and occasional excursions with Margaery and Dany.

Sansa nearly jumped off the couch when her phone chirped this time.

> **(907) 555-0176: Okay**
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: Now?**
> 
> Sansa: Are you up to it??

His response made her smile.

> **(907) 555-0176: Well, I'm not NOT up to it...**
> 
> Sansa: How about, for no pressure, we pretend we've known each other for years.
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: No pressure. Right. That will totally work......**
> 
> Sansa: lol Would you rather Skype?

She inserted a little devil face emoji here for good measure. 

> **(907) 555** **-0176: Um.**
> 
> Sansa: I'm kidding.
> 
> Sansa: You can handle a phone call, though, right?
> 
> **(907) 555-0176: It's easier than face to face, I suppose.**
> 
> **Sansa** : It is. And hey, we'll time it. Ten minutes? We can make it to ten minutes.
> 
> **(907) 55** **5-0176: Deal.**

Sandor's hand shook as he raised it to his phone, which was silly because he was made out of sterner stuff and he didn't have anything to be scared of. It might have been better had it been EB on the other end of the line, or one of the guys he sometimes spoke to at group—Drogo, the quiet one, or even Bronn, who talked so much Sandor actually felt like he couldn't get a word in edgewise sometimes.

But this was a _woman_ . And, _fuck_ , he felt like a green little boy because she was a pretty woman. Twelve years his junior but it wasn't like this was a date. And, he realized, for the second time she was willing to help him with something that she had no obligation to help him with.

No, he would do this, and he would do it happily. Damn it, _be happy_.

His phone dinging made his heart jump into his throat, and it took a moment for him to calm it back down.

> Sansa: My phone isn't ringing, big man.

_Big man_. He snorted at the nickname, though he supposed he really was. She'd even pointed out his size compared to the door to his shop. It was funny that she picked up on a detail like that.

But she was calling him out now, and he needed to respond. With a deep breath he pushed the phone icon in the upper corner of their text conversation, and watched as his phone screen went from their conversation to a "Dialing _Sansa_ " image.

"Hello?"

Sandor had to clear the nervousness from his throat.

"Sansa?"

There was a pause, and he wondered at its cause. Then came a voice in which he could clearly hear a smile.

"Hi, Sandor. Thank you for calling me."

"I, uh... Thanks for encouraging me to."

"Are you nervous?" She chuckled, and it was low and husky. _Shit_ , this suddenly didn't seem like a good idea. He cleared his throat again.

"Uh, I am... You?" For fuck's sake, why did he ask that... But then, to his surprise, she answered.

"Yeah, I kinda am."

"Why?"

She laughed again, and he could _hear_ the nervousness in it. He could picture her being the phone cord-twirling type, though he doubted she had ever seen a phone cord.

"I've never done anything like this before."

"Talk on a phone?"

Her louder laugh was nice, but he still closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead. He was making jokes now?! Where the fuck had Sandor gone?

"No, I mean talk to someone on the phone without having met them. Heck, I've never had a year-and-a-half text conversation with anyone without talking to them first."

Sandor found that he couldn't sit still. He got up from his recliner and paced towards his desk at the far side of the room, then turned and walked back toward the fridge.

"If it makes you feel any better, neither have I."

She was full of nervous laughter, and she let some of it out again at that. Her voice sounded young and sweet. It was smooth and thick, her laugh a bit throaty and her words flowing like warmed honey. He pictured her as he'd seen in the photo of her costume—tall and lithe, comfortable in her body, and that stunning mane of red hair.

"So."

"So."

There was a pause, slightly uncomfortable, but he found he didn't have it within him to break it. He felt like an idiot, having a beautiful woman on the phone and finding himself completely unable to form a sentence. He knew he could talk about her, her job, her evening, her friends, why she was the designated driver, why her friends weren't... Topics abounded, but he was incapable of speaking about any of them.

Perhaps Sansa sensed this because she came to his rescue.

"How about we start with basic questions, okay? I'll start. What music do you like?"

Sandor smiled. This, he could do. He kept up his pacing, back and forth, between the desk and the fridge, as he answered.

"Pretty much all of it."

"Okay, what's on your radio right now?"

Sandor glanced at his stereo and remembered the CD he had put in earlier that day.

"AC/DC."

"Oh my god, really?" She said it like he had said something she didn't believe, but then she laughed again. "My dad loves them, but I could never stomach that lead singer's voice."

Sandor chuckled, an odd sound even to him. "They're an acquired taste." He stopped when he got to the kitchen and took a drink of his water bottle as she mumbled _no kidding_.

"What's on your radio right now?"

"George Strait."

"Huh," he replied. "Not bad. I like him, too." Sansa had been right, talking _was_ getting a bit easier with these mundane questions. He resumed his pacing and asked the next question.

"Food? What's your favorite food?"

"Hawaiian pizza. You?"

"Steak. And pineapple doesn't belong on pizza," he joked, and she laughed again.

"That's what my sister tells me, but it's mine and my mom's favorite."

They talked about simple stuff from there—that neither of them had pets (she recommended he get a dog to combat loneliness), that she liked hiking and he liked running, and that while she thought winter was beautiful, he tended to spend most of it indoors.

"You must be awfully pale when Spring comes around," she teased, and he had to laugh.

"I've seen your hair, so who's talking about pale?" Through the phone he could hear her laugh loudly, though she responded with _true, true_.

"But in my defense, I go out in the sun and I burn unless I wear SPF 70. So I have an excuse." Then she paused for a beat and added, "Hey, we've been talking for fifteen minutes. I forgot to time it. How are you doing?"

Sandor stopped behind his couch and stood, not sure what to think. Talking on the phone to her wasn't bad, hadn't really been tough at all except for the beginning. So when he replied, he was honest.

"I'm okay. This has been nice."

"I agree. Nice."

They both paused, as though admitting that meant something deeper that neither of them wanted to admit. And for Sandor, it was true. On top of being attracted to a photo of her, she was fun and engaging on the phone, and her voice was damn sexy. So it was a small comfort that they would likely never meet, because he wasn't sure how he would handle seeing her face to face.

He didn't have a lot of experience with women, and what he did, like he had told Sansa, was not very pleasant. His sexual experiences, which had started in high school, were initiated with a dare from the group of cheerleaders. That had been his first experience with rejection—his teenage self, thinking someone had finally accepted him and was attracted to him. Boy, had he been wrong.

Then later there were a few drunk encounters, a few situations that he might call dates that ended up in the bedroom and finished with the woman saying she couldn't get over his face. And more recently (though not in a couple years) it had been an anonymous hook-up website at seedy hotels where he'd felt like wearing three condoms at once, just to be safe.

The last one had cut him down so badly that he'd been unable to perform, and he had walked out of the hotel room, shoulders slumped, to the sound of the woman's laughter.

Fuck no, he was done with women in that respect. Though, he admitted grudgingly to himself, he'd likely take himself in hand while he was _Texting Friends_ with Sansa. For the first time in a long time he felt a stirring down there.

But he was done with dating, done with trying to find someone who could accept him as he was—scars and all.

Sansa's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"So, should we do it again sometime?"

He thought about it for a moment, but then nodded, and remembering that they were speaking on the phone, said, “Yes, that would be nice.”

"Great! I guess that means I should probably program your name into my phone." She chuckled but Sandor felt slightly embarrassed. He had done that with hers long ago.

She yawned then, which made him yawn as well. "I'm going to head to bed. All this excitement and I'm wiped out."

"Sounds good. Goodnight, Sansa. Thanks for the phone call."

"Goodnight, Sandor. Thank _you_ for calling _me_." And with that she hung up.

 _So_ , he thought _, that's what it's like to have a mutually respectful conversation with a woman_. He kind of liked it.

Throughout the following week, Sansa recalled the sound of Sandor's voice at odd times during the day—his raspy, earthy sound. It had been deep, and had made her shiver a few times. Was it possible to be attracted to a man just from hearing his voice over the phone?

Well, okay, she'd also seen his picture. But that had only confused her—her "type" was thin, athletic, fair-skinned, and pretty social. Sandor was... Well, none of those. He was broad and muscular, athletic perhaps in a brawny outdoorsman kind of way, certainly not fair, and certainly not social. Perhaps it was the romance novels she'd read that detailed whirlwind romances where opposites attracted and the man swept the woman off her feet—all that thick, syrupy love probably left a residue in her brain.

Besides the seeds of attraction she felt when she thought of him, she also smiled at his Halloween predicament, and laughed when she remembered how nervous they both had been at the beginning of the phone call.

When Arya called to ask her to lunch on Friday she readily agreed, but by then she wondered when she was going to hear from Sandor again. She didn't say anything to Arya about him, despite wanting to. It just wasn't something she was ready to share, yet.

Sansa didn't hear from him that week, or the week after, or even the week after that. It wasn't until a month later, just after Thanksgiving, when she received a surprising text from him.


	6. November 30, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter, but good! I didn't realize how short it was. This might be a record for me.
> 
> I'll post another one tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for the comments and compliments on my fic. You guys are amazing and I love you <3

> **Sandor: Step nine of recovery is making direct amends to people I have wronged. I need help with deciding how best to do this for you.**

Sandor waited six whole hours before Sansa responded to his text. He wasn't sure if he had texted her while she was busy or if it took her that long to figure out how to turn him down nicely, as he was fairly certain that she would never be harsh about something like that. Sansa had proven herself to be sweet, kind, and extremely considerate, if her treatment of her friends was any indication of her personality.

So when his phone dinged at him that he'd received a text, he at once had to take a deep breath and attempt to calm his heart. He set down the knife he was he was working on with his grinder, switched off the machine, and pulled out his phone as the local rock music station played on the radio in the background.

> Sansa: Sandor, you don't have to make amends to me. We're past that now.
> 
> Sansa: How was your Thanksgiving?
> 
> **Sandor: I didn't celebrate Thanksgiving, and yes, I do have to make amends. It's part of the program.**
> 
> **Sandor: There's only two people who I need to make amends to and you're one of them.**
> 
> Sansa: Everyone celebrates Thanksgiving
> 
> **Sandor: Not when you don't have anyone to celebrate it with.**
> 
> Sansa: Gendry?
> 
> **Sandor: Went with his family**

She paused in her replies again. Of course it would be important to her to celebrate Thanksgiving. She had mentioned what, having brothers and a sister? Plus friends? His brother was God-knows-where, and his parents were dead. He hadn't actually celebrated a holiday with anyone since he was a kid.

It was nearing quitting time when his phone dinged again.

> Sansa: You can make amends by celebrating Thanksgiving with me. That way, you're doing something for me and you're letting me do something for you.
> 
> **Sandor: What, you mean meet?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes, at my place. Saturday.
> 
> **Sandor: Are you sure?**
> 
> Sansa: You seem to ask me that every time I suggest we do something new lol
> 
> **Sandor: Remember who you're talking to. I'm a hermit.**
> 
> Sansa: Oh, I know, big man lol. So while you're making amends to me for being an ass while drunk, let me do this for you. How long has it been since you had a holiday dinner?
> 
> **Sandor: Decades.**
> 
> Sansa: It's settled then. Saturday at 5pm. I'll text you directions.

Sandor didn't know what to think. Did he just agree to go to a young woman's house for dinner? And did she just really pass it off as them doing it as a favor to each other? Christ, he was confused. He didn't know Sansa at all—only knew mostly what she looked like (she'd had a mask on, after all), that she was generous, and a hell of a lot younger than him.

And now he knew she was bold enough to invite a strange man into her home. He was more than a bit alarmed at that. He had the thought that maybe this was not the first time she'd done it, but he shook his head at his thoughts as he turned the lights off in his shop. No, their cell phone friendship had started as a wrong number. He couldn't see her doing this kind of thing on a regular basis.

He entered his cabin and walked into the bathroom, where he surveyed himself in front of the mirror.

His hair was long, as it hadn’t been cut in over two years. And his beard—well, it still probably had birds living in it. He ran a hand down his chin and pulled the beard into a point in front of his chest.

It was just something else he hid behind all these years, although he didn't think now he could ever actually get rid of all of it. There likely would be a military haircut in his future, and a clean-shaven face. He kept part of his hair combed over to cover the scars on his forehead and scalp, and to hide what was left of his ear. There was nothing he could do for the side of his cheek in front of his ear where beard would not grow so he allowed his beard to get full and thick in an effort to hide it.

Even now, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he could pull the hair and manipulate it in a way that mostly hid his scars. It also made him look like a homicidal maniac, but they were covered.

So did he really want to get it trimmed before meeting Sansa? He knew the answer was yes. All those times they'd talked since he had told her about his scars, she neither asked to see them nor dwelled on them in conversation. She in fact had supported him and had shown compassion in helping him find a Halloween costume.

So no, he wouldn't hide them from her. But he wouldn’t show up looking like G.I. Joe either.

Picking up his phone, he entered Gendry’s phone number and pressed Call.

The next day, as he and Gendry were in the small, cramped bathroom examining Gendry's work, Sandor felt exposed. Even in front of Gendry, it had been a long time since he was so... trimmed.

"Pretty good," said Sandor’s unsmiling employee about his own work. A pair of beard trimmers, a comb, and scissors sat on the counter beside the sink, which was full of discarded beard hair. Sandor was sitting on his shop stool so that the shorter man could work his magic. And if Gendry's expression was to be judged, Sandor would have to say he saw a bit of pride and perhaps smugness hidden in the small movements of Gendry's expression.

Sandor grunted his agreement.

His beard was now just a couple inches long at the chin, still longer than what he'd seen on TV was fashionable, but what did he care. It covered his skin and that's what he wanted. Gone was the possibility for birds to nest in it. The sides were trimmed though not so short that you could see skin underneath, though it did hide the scars less now. And Gendry didn't do anything to the hair on his neck under the beard—he was a hairy man, and he wasn't about to let Gendry trim all the way down to his chest.

His hair was also nicely trimmed, falling in soft waves to just below his shoulders. He looked at Gendry again in the mirror and grunted, nodding for emphasis. Gendry may have cracked a smile before looking away, though Sandor couldn't be sure.

"Yes, well..." Gendry gathered up the trimmer and scissors and stood at the door. "Let me know if there's anything else you need. And, if you choose, let me know why you wanted this sudden haircut."

There  _ was _ a damned smile on his face as he walked away then, and Sandor sighed as he heard his front door close. After cleaning up the mess and sweeping the floor he stood in front of the mirror again, hardly recognizing the man who stared back at him.

He was far from being clean cut, but he did look a hell of a lot more presentable than what he had. He wondered what Sansa would think of him, though he immediately pushed those thoughts out of his mind. The objective for dinner was not to spend time with a woman he was attracted to, a woman who he knew would never consider being with him.

No, it was to make amends. She wanted to have dinner with him so he would do it for her; let her show him a Thanksgiving dinner and then be on his way. He didn't think about the evening beyond that.


	7. December 3, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drum roll, please...

Sansa felt funny for being nervous. This was her idea: inviting him over and having dinner with him. She had sent him directions to her apartment and had set about finishing up dinner: putting things in the oven that needed to finish cooking just a few minutes before he was supposed to show up.

Then she sat on her couch, eyes barely peeking over the back where an afghan, handmade by her mother, rested. The smell and feel of the soft yarn on her face was comforting as her heart beat unnecessarily fast within her chest.

She pulled up the messaging app on her phone and texted Arya, needing someone to give her a pep talk, or words of wisdom, or  _ something _ .

> Sansa: Arya!!
> 
> **Arya: What??**
> 
> Sansa: I haven’t told you, but I invited a guy over…
> 
> **Arya: Dude do u need me to go on a condom run?**
> 
> Sansa: What?? No, it’s not that kind of date. And it’s not even a date. Sheesh.
> 
> Sansa: It’s just dinner, but I’m nervous.
> 
> Sansa: What should I do?
> 
> **Arya: so no one u know, knows this guy?**
> 
> Sansa: Actually, no.
> 
> **Arya: where did u meet him?**
> 
> Sansa: Actually, we have never met…
> 
> **Arya: What do u mean?? is this an internet date?**
> 
> Sansa: Actually, he was a wrong number text.
> 
> **Arya: Sansa omg. i’m coming over**
> 
> Sansa: What, no. Don’t. I mean, I don’t think he’s a weirdo, if that’s what you mean.
> 
> **Arya: of course that’s what I mean!!**
> 
> Sansa: He’s a nice guy. We’ve talked on the phone.
> 
> **Arya: Big whoop**
> 
> Sansa: Wait, I think he’s here.

An older but well cared for truck pulled into the parking lot.  _ It must be him _ , she thought. She watched as he pulled up to a spot just to the side of her window; from her vantage spot high on the fourth floor she could see a hand on the steering wheel and one on a gear shifter.  _ So he drove a stick shift _ , she thought with a small smile. Not many people did nowadays. Her dad had forced her and her siblings to learn how, explaining that one day it might come in handy. He'd always said, “ _ If you can drive a stick shift, you can drive anything _ .” She had yet to prove his theory.

She watched as the driver’s hands rested in his lap, and wondered at his lack of movement. Was he nervous? Apprehensive? Or was he about to turn around and drive away? She hoped not, as not only had she put several hours into preparing this meal, but she was looking forward to meeting him, finally.

They had been conversing on and off for a year and a half now, and their communication had picked up in recent months with more frequent texts and even the phone call. He sounded interesting—like a normal guy, but one who had kept himself closed off from the world for so long. She had nearly shed tears over his statement that he didn't celebrate holidays. Who didn't celebrate holidays?! So when he had said he wanted to make amends— _ step 9 _ , she remembered—she knew it was an opportunity to do something for him in return.

He still hadn't gotten out of the truck so she looked over at her small dining table, regarding her work. She had put a Thanksgiving tablecloth on it, with her plain cream-colored dinnerware. A couple bottles of sparkling apple cider sat chilling in the fridge so there were two wine glasses on the table, as well as water glasses.

Soon there would be a gravy boat, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes. The small turkey she had bought (for a nice discount, since it was after Thanksgiving) was resting on the counter, having already been baked, with the green bean casserole and dinner rolls still warming in the oven. A small pot of gravy was simmering on the stove, ready to be poured into her gravy boat. A bowl of potato salad sat in the fridge, waiting to be put out.

All in all, she thought she had done a good job. It was much easier preparing food for two people than trying to prepare dishes that would feed her ovesized family.

She turned to look out the window and saw that now his door was open, and after a beat he unfolded himself from the cab of the truck and stood next to it.

> Sansa: It’s him. He’s outside.
> 
> **Arya: how do u know if youve never seen him?**
> 
> Sansa: He’s enormous. Tall.
> 
> **Arya: sansa, you’re not instilling in me much confidance in your ability 2 choose a man**

He really  _ was _ quite tall—she could see that even from way up here. His hair was long, and though she couldn't see his face clearly in the poor lighting of the snow-covered parking lot, she could see the darkness of a beard covering his face.

She was very curious to finally see his face, to put an image to all those conversation they'd had, to the nervous voice that had come across the phone line, so raspy and deep.

He closed the door and again, didn't move. She could only imagine what years of isolation had done to him and how nervous he must be. So she rose from her spying spot and went into the bathroom to check her appearance.

She hadn't dressed in anything special, just a cap-sleeved yellow sundress over a soft pair of jeans. The buttons on the sundress were a matching shade of yellow and ran from neckline to hem. She wore no jewelry and had simply brushed her hair out so it hung long behind her back. She had kept her face bare of makeup, which she usually did anyway, having only had a passing moment where she'd thought to do her best at making herself look like the other ladies she worked with. But no, she felt like it would be better if she presented herself as authentically her.

> Sansa: Okay, I’m going to set my phone aside. It’s on, but I’m not going to text you. That’s rude.
> 
> **Arya: so is going 2 a girls house 2 murder her on a blind date**
> 
> Sansa: Omg Arya. I’ll text you later.

She gathered a chunk of hair to the side and brought it forward, combing it down over her breast so it laid flat and smooth and shiny. It did nothing to soothe her nerves.

A buzzer chimed and she had to swallow her heart down before pressing the button next to her door.

"Hello?"

His voice sounded in return, "It's Sandor."

Sansa smiled to herself. He sounded so serious.

"I'll buzz you in."

It took just a minute for him to navigate the elevator and arrive at her door, and she was a flutter of nerves the whole time. When he knocked she took a quick peek out her peephole high in her door, and still had to look up to see the back of his head.

Nervously, she unbolted the door and turned the deadbolt and opened the door slowly as he turned around.

It was like a moment of slow motion, where he was suddenly faced with a pale woman with the reddest hair he'd ever seen. His eyes landed on the yellow buttons of her sundress, wandered up and over small, pert breasts, to the graceful curve of an ivory neck, coral lips spread in a smile, and up to bright blue eyes.

"Sandor," she said, and her voice was a breathy whisper. His mouth twitched, a smile that never quite became a smile, and he nodded once.

"Sansa."

There was a moment there where she stood with her shoulder pressed against the edge of the door, one arm hidden behind it and one grasping the corner by her stomach, not saying anything, simply staring at him, that same closed-mouth smile remaining on her face as her eyebrows changed to show a myriad of expressions—happiness, curiosity, embarrassment.

"Come in, come in," she said at that last expression, and she stepped behind the door and opened it wider to let him in. As he passed her he saw goosebumps had appeared on her upper arms and he wondered at the cause.

He stood to the side of the door, giving her apartment a quick glance before settling his eyes back on her. Sansa pushed the door shut, locking the deadbolt as the hem of her dress swished around her thighs. Then she took a step back so she wasn't standing quite so close to him.

"Can I take your jacket?" Those eyebrows again, lifting as she asked the question. He gathered that her face was very expressive, and he liked it. Another curt nod and he let his jacket slide down his back after shrugging out of it, and then handed it to her. Their fingers brushed briefly with the exchange and Sandor's heart tripped.

_ Don't be nervous, don't be nervous _ , he coaxed himself. He remembered what EB had said when Sandor told him on Thursday what his plans were.

"This is a big step, Sandor, and I'm very proud of you." The older, grizzly man had smiled fatherly at Sandor. "Now, I know you'll be anxious and more than likely a bit scared--" Sandor had wanted to deny it but EB held up a hand. "No, no, you and I both know this is completely out of your comfort zone. Just remember—you're there for a purpose." A reassuring hand was placed on the back of Sandor's shoulder as they walked to the front doors of the small church where meetings were held. "You do  _ not _ have to wander aimlessly through the evening, tripping over your lack of social skills." Again, Sandor shot a look to EB, who just chuckled and smiled.

"Remember the step—make direct amends." He enunciated each word clearly, slowly. "You wronged this woman, and you are there to make up for it. And you will know immediately her level of receptiveness to your attempt. So keep that in mind as you go through your evening. I have faith in your instincts," he said finally, "As well as our fellow human being’s." EB's gaze flicked to Sandor's scars. "And I know you'll conquer your fears."

So now Sandor paused, just inside the door of her apartment, wanting to say something but not knowing where to start. To put it off, he bent down and quickly untied his boots before putting them next to hers on a shoe mat beside the door. Then he stood back up, noting the way her eyes widened and her eyebrows raised as he regained his full height.

Sansa had hung his jacket up on a coat rack attached to the wall, a much larger tan piece of clothing than her small jackets and bright sweaters. Everything about her seemed to be bright, from the yellow of her dress, to the red of her hair, to the vibrant blue of her eyes, and everything in her apartment. He was sure she wouldn't own anything that was black, there was so much color everywhere.

She turned back to him with hands clasped in front of her stomach. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Thank you for coming, Sandor," she said, and he thought perhaps she looked as nervous as he was. That surprised him, since this was her idea, this dinner together. She led him into her living room and motioned for him to sit on the couch. He did, and he sank in quite a bit, and suddenly she was much taller than he.

"You're welcome," he said, but he was still looking up at her. She turned and sat in the small arm chair to the left of the couch, angled towards him.

"I'm nervous, Sandor--"

"This is new--"

They both tried to speak at the same time, and both laughed when they realized what had happened.  _ God, she's beautiful. _ He schooled his thoughts before they went down that path, and motioned for her to go first.

"I'm nervous," she said again as she looked down at her lap to fidget with her hands. Then she raised her eyes back to him, a smile on her face. She was blushing.

Sandor chuckled and looked away from her, towards the kitchen, realizing a moment later that he'd just showed her the thin hair and scarring on that side of his face. He quickly turned his head back and resisted the urge to bring his hand up to cover it, as he had done so many times in public when someone had seen his disfigurement. Still, he turned his face to where his hands rested on his lap and stared at a fold in his jeans on the inside of his knee.

"I'm nervous, and you're not making this easy." His eyes snapped to hers for a moment before returning to his lap, and he rubbed his hands down his thighs to rest his palms on his knees.

"I'm sorry," he said to the blue of his jeans. "I'm nervous, too."  _ Fuck. This was a bad idea. _

"What are you nervous about, Sandor?" Her voice was gentle, and he knew he wasn't acting normal, knew he wasn't doing what EB had told him to do. He was almost  _ fucking thirty-six _ and he wasn't able to hold a conversation with a beautiful woman.

He brought both hands up and rubbed them over his eyes, his face, down to his beard before letting them fall again.

"The truth?" he asked, lifting his eyes to her now. She nodded, though her smile was patient, her eyes kind.

Sandor sighed and looked at his jeans again, noted how the edges of the seams were faded to a lighter color. There was no help for it, he supposed. Part of his humbly making amends was likely being honest with this woman.

"I'm nervous about being here," he started, pausing to take a deep breath. Then he said in a whoosh, "I'm nervous about meeting you, being around someone who can see me, and about wanting you to have a good time tonight because I was a fucking asshole when I was drunk."

There was silence from her chair, and when he looked at her she was looking out the window, her face illuminated by the soft living room light above them and the side lamp she had lit on the table between her and the window. Her gaze was clear, her lips pursed in concentration, so he waited for a response.

It was maybe thirty seconds before she turned back to him, and he looked at her, his head held at an angle, just enough that he could look at her from underneath the hair he had let fall forward to cover his face.

Then a very slight smile spread across her lips, and she blinked, slowly.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Sandor." Her voice was gentle and comforting, though he wasn't sure if he should believe her. Didn't he? Shouldn't he be afraid of someone who had the power—as a beautiful, friendly woman—to turn his life upside down? Yes, he was sure he would always be afraid of her in some way.

But she rose and walked around the opposite side of the coffee table to sit on the couch beside him. She tucked one leg up underneath her and put an arm on the back of the couch. Her knee almost touch his hip.

She sat on the side with the scars and Sandor knew at once she had done it on purpose. But she sat there... And she sat, and she sat, not moving and not speaking, until finally he turned towards her and looked, her face so close to his he could smell the berries and cream of her shampoo.

"Would you show me?" she asked, and as much as his inner hermit wanted to rant and rage that someone had asked to  _ see _ his scars, he knew deep down that she held no animosity towards him, and she wasn't asking out of a morbid curiosity to see a freak. She just as much said so in her next breath.

"I'd like to be your friend, Sandor, and that does include," she said softly, "trusting each other."

_ Aw, fuck _ . What would EB say at a time like this? He really didn't even have to ask himself—EB would say throw his hair back in a ponytail and  _ fuckall consequences _ . The recovery pastor's voice sounded in his mind, full of good humor and laughter.

Sansa was watching him, smooth, straight red hair falling over her shoulder and hanging like a curtain in front of her leaning torso. Even in the sixty-watt bulb of the living room light, it shone like copper and spun gold. He looked at it, taking a mental break from what he was about to do.

Then he lifted his left hand and pushed his fingers into the hair at the crown of his head, then slowly slid them over so that the hair hanging on the right side of his face slid out of the way, revealing what he knew to be gnarled, bumpy skin, red and white, crevices and knots of scar tissue that had healed too much before he'd gone to the doctor. It had been horrible, those first few days when his father had refused to bring him to the hospital, and then again when someone had whispered  _ plastic surgery _ into his mind and his father had flat-out responded with  _ no insurance _ .

Things could have been different, he might have even had hair on that side, had he been brought to the hospital the day his brother shoved his face into the leftover coals of the bonfire.

So here he sat now, on a couch the color of the sky on a sunny day, with a rainbow throw pillow under his left arm, as a woman he had no business being around, a woman so beautiful that he knew he'd dream about her tonight, sat on his right, looking at his disfigured face with what was probably disgust on her face.

He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to see the mortification, or worse, the horrid curiosity, that was likely on her face. He'd been around women before who wanted to see it, just so they could turn their backs on him and whisper to their friends about  _ If only his face didn't look like that _ .

He didn't know how much time had passed—two minutes? Five, possibly—before he decided to finally look at her.

Her hands were clasped tightly on top of her legs, her knuckles slightly pale with the strength of her grip. And the neck of her dress gaped open with the inward slouching of her shoulder, exposing just an inch or two more of smooth, freckled skin. And on her mouth there was no smile, but she could see the barest movements that said inside her mouth her teeth or her tongue were worrying at her flesh.

When he raised his eyes to hers, he saw wetness in them that caught him off guard. So much so that he turned his face back to his legs and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing, Sansa," he stated with a grimace. Was it really that bad? But he didn't really have to ask himself—he knew what he looked like. He looked at himself every day in the mirror, sometimes several times a day. Regretting. Wishing. Fuming. He didn't think he'd ever made a grown woman cry, though.

He pushed his fists into the cushions beside his thighs to propel himself off the couch when a slim hand came out to grasp his forearm, a tight grip that told him she didn't want him to go. He slumped back into the couch, only because there was only that position or standing with this couch—no in between space where he could hover at the edge or remain as he was comfortably. He sank back into the soft cushions, already forming a defensive retort in his mind to her tears.

"My god, Sandor," she said as he was about to tell her off. "How old were you?!"

His nostrils flared, and he felt anger rising in him like boiling water against the side of a pot. "Six," he ground out through clenched teeth. He needed to get out of here, but he respected the hand on his arm and stayed put for the time being. Let her ask her questions, amends be damned.

"Oh, my god, Sandor," she said again, "You were just a little boy." He glanced at her again, and he felt an inkling that things may not be what he assumed. A tear fell from her eye and she brought her other hand up to swipe it away as he looked away again.

Then the same hand came up and, without any warning, pressed open-palmed to the side of his face, and Sandor flinched. His heart pounded in his chest, despite his inability to actually feel the sensation of her skin against his. He could feel the pressure, could feel how lightly she touched him, though he could clearly feel the pad of her thumb where it rested on his cheek above the line of his beard. He would have turned his head towards her had he thought she wouldn't poke him in the eye with that thumb.

"It must have hurt so much," she said, though it sounded like she said it more for herself than for him. Then as her hand loosened its grip on his arm, she increased the pressure of her palm on his scars, and he could feel the heat of her hand seeping through the outer layer of scar tissue to the soft flesh underneath.

It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. No one,  _ no one _ , had ever touched his scars the way she was. She wasn't even moving her hand and it was still a profound experience. He felt his anger wash away, replaced with a growing awe and his own curiosity at this enigma of a woman who sat beside him.

Slowly, so that her hand moved with him, he turned his face enough that he could see her with both eyes.

"What are you doing, Sansa," he said again, though his voice was rougher than normal, even cracked a bit when saying her name. She smiled as a tear rolled down her lip, going unnoticed as it sat there until it slipped down over the surface and her tongue came out to claim it.

He closed his eyes, meant to blink before focusing on her, except the feel of her palm on his face was more soothing than any therapy he'd ever received in the nearly three decades since the incident. He found that his eyes did not want to open again, and he leaned into her touch, a sigh of contentment catching him off guard when he breathed it out his own nose.

It felt like he was no better than a dog getting a good scratching on its cheek, though he didn't care. He opened his eyes again and now she was smiling, and he had to remember that he came here to be nice to her, to make amends to her, not the other way around. But he knew he would remember this moment for as long as he lived.

"Do you trust me?" she whispered, smiling. But when he took a moment to answer, when he spent a few seconds gathering what courage he had left to muster within his heart, she drew in one side of her lower lip and worried it with her teeth. He watched, eyes on the smoothness of her lips, wondering how far he was going to fall before he got his act together and cut off communication with her. He knew now that she was the type who must attract people, and that he was no better than a bee to her beautiful spring flower.

So he nodded, feeling the friction between her palm and his skin until she drew her hand away and he lifted his head, regretting his initial anger at her forwardness. But the smile she gave him said that somehow, in the few moments that he'd had her hand on his scars, he had somehow achieved at least part of Step 9.

Enigma, indeed. Though he was certain she was a puzzle he would never figure out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Arya *snickering*


	8. December 3, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving along! 
> 
> Delving into their first meeting a bit more ;-)

After the moment with his scars, the evening progressed slowly but pleasantly, aside from the one time she just couldn’t avoid texting Arya back any longer.

The sounds of Sansa’s chirping robins would sound from her phone and she felt like she was constantly apologizing. She finally brought up Arya’s texts and responded.

> **Arya: is he there?**
> 
> **Arya: answer me**
> 
> **Arya: if u dont answer me im going to show up**
> 
> **Arya: 5**
> 
> **Arya: 4**
> 
> **Arya: 3**
> 
> **Arya: 2**
> 
> Sansa: Arya!! For goodness sake, you are ruining a very nice evening SO STOP TEXTING ME.
> 
> Sansa: I told you I would text when I was done
> 
> Sansa: He’s kind, shy, and probably annoyed as all get out, so let me enjoy my evening!

She set the phone down, satisfied that she’d gotten her point across. She was able to get Sandor talking again by prompting him with soft questions, while she quietly dwelled on the moment they’d had before on the couch.

It was painfully obvious that he was lacking physical touch. Not that she was volunteering, but the way he had leaned into her hand when she'd been so overcome by emotion at seeing the horrendous scars, and when she had reached out to feel them, to show how much she cared by touching—much the same way she would do with a child at the museum—she'd felt immediately that he had been telling her the truth when he said all those things about being a recluse, about not speaking to people or going out in public. In that instant she was positive he was exactly who he said he was.

She couldn't get the image of his face out of her mind, the way he had closed those deep, gray eyes and sighed. It was so much like a lost, abused puppy—even the skin at the corner of his right eye was drawn down like a sad basset hound. And she had wanted him to trust her, to trust her with his story, with his secrets, with the care of his friendship while she was in his life—that she had asked him, and he had affirmed, that he trusted her.

Her tears were a surprise even to herself.  _ Wow _ , she thought as he spoke now about growing up in Alaska.  _ That was so emotional! _ She still could not imagine what he must have gone through—a six-year-old child! Even now, if she wasn't careful she might cry again at the thought. And to spend all this time with these scars, feeling like the world hated him and thought him disgusting—what was he, thirty-five now? Thirty-six?--Three decades of a self-imposed prison. She couldn’t fathom it.

The rest of it—the part that she pushed to the very back of her mind while sitting on the couch and listening to him—was the feel of his beard under the heel of her hand, the warm skin she touched with the pad of her thumb. She had never touched a man in that way, and she had surprised even herself. But even more so, she had  _ enjoyed _ it, had felt like her hand resting there at the side of his face was such a natural position, that she likely would have stayed there longer had he not opened his eyes and seen her tears.

And the truth was, she liked him. He was very different, of course, from anyone else she knew—but not in a bad way. She liked his quiet demeanor, his large frame paired with the shyness brought about by his lifestyle. He was a knifemaker, for crying out loud—how could he  _ not _ be interesting?

He brought her out of her thoughts by saying, "My knife store has been open for years and I'm not tired of making them, yet." Sansa refocused on his face from where she sat across from him at the small dining table, a veritable feast of food laid out on the small space between them.

"Knife store? Where is your store?" She scooped up a bite of mashed potatoes and gravy and slid the fork in her mouth.

"Fifth avenue, where it's been since I opened."

Sansa's mouth fell open before she remembered there was food in it. She quickly swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

"You mean Alaska Knives And Cutlery?!"

Sandor narrowed his brow at her, nodding as he chewed a mouthful of turkey.

"Oh my god! Jen is actually Gendry! I  _ thought _ that was an odd name for a guy!" She chuckled at the coincidence. "Gendry is my sister's boyfriend! She mentioned her guy worked at a knife store," she said as she stirred the food around on her plate. Then she glanced up at him quickly to add, "I work on seventh avenue, two blocks from your store."

At that Sandor smiled, wiping his own mouth with a napkin before laying it on his thigh again under the table.

"But I never see you around town," continued Sansa," and I walk around downtown all the time. Is that because you stay at home?"

Sandor nodded, swallowing a drink of cider before saying, "Gendry works the shop full-time. I never go in there. If there's an issue he either tells me about it or sends me a photo from his phone."

"And that arrangement has always worked for you?" Sansa couldn't imagine never seeing his own store. Then again, Arya always gushed about her Jen—correction, Gen—so it was no wonder he was actually competent enough to run a store all by himself.

Again, Sandor nodded. "I even gave him a raise recently. He is indispensable." Sansa knew this to be true, knowing some of the other things Gendry did for Sandor.

And she thought again, Sandor was just a peculiar man, though not in a bad way. She was having a good time picking his brain and getting to know him.

He had been especially polite since she'd stood from the couch and announced it was time to check on dinner. To her surprise, he'd followed her to the kitchen, though he stayed just on the outside until she realized he wasn't going to enter  _ her space _ until she asked him to. So she had given him a large knife and a pair of tongs, and a serving platter, and had tasked him with carving the turkey and plating the meat. He did this efficiently, though he did mumble a couple times over how dull her knife was. He promised to sharpen all of her knives, despite her assurances that she hadn't invited him over to find things to fix for her.

"Even so," he'd said, "This is ridiculous."

Sansa had just laughed as she brought serving dishes to the table.

They finished dinner as Sansa completed her recitation of siblings, ages and professions. He was interested in Arya, for the obvious reasons, and said he was surprised that Gendry hadn't mentioned much about her. Sansa told him maybe it was for the best, because her sister wasn't the easiest person to be around. She had smiled while she said it, but she hoped he took her warning to heart. Arya was... headstrong, at best—unbearably moody when she was PMSing (Sansa left that out of the discussion).

When they were done he surprised her yet again by washing all the dishes while she portioned out leftovers into two sets of tupperware. He never asked what she was doing, as he seemed pretty attentive to his task. And Sansa enjoyed how different her kitchen seemed as she moved about him in the small space, not being used to having to maneuver around a large man as she retrieved tupperware from the bottom drawer to his right while putting food in the containers at the counter on his left. Every time she past him she could smell him—earthy, maybe a lightly scented men's shampoo. She liked it, though made a mental note not to dwell on how much.

When she was done bagging half of the containers in a reusable shopping bag, she put them all in the fridge and dried the dishes as he handed them to her one by one after rinsing them. It was funny, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, making idle chatter about the weather and living in Alaska. She told him more about her family and how they got together often.

The Thanksgiving dinner she'd gone to at her parents' house had been eventful, and she told him about how her older brother Robb and his wife Jeyne had announced they were having a baby: the first grandchild. Of course, her mother had been reduced to a mess of tears and sobs at the news while her father had clapped Robb on the back and gave Jeyne a fatherly hug. Sansa left out all the jokes her brothers had said, and all the congratulations offered on both Robb’s performance and the tenacity of his little  _ swimmers _ . But she told him about Jeyne's reaction; the sweet, quiet woman's desire to have a little girl and to name her something different, perhaps an old name with a contemporary spelling.

Sansa must have wrinkled her nose, because Sandor was then looking down at her, asking, "You don't like that idea?"

Sansa looked up at him, pausing in drying the large platter he'd put the turkey meat on. Her smile slipped some at the clearness of his gray eyes and the way they looked at her, genuinely waiting for and interested in her answer. She looked away, not wanting to be flustered over her reaction to the handsomeness of his face, across his body and out the window in front of him.

"No, not really," she mused, looking down to finish drying the platter. "A name is a name, and when I have kids they'll have the most plain, old-fashioned spellings." She laughed at herself; at all the times she'd thought about what to name her as-yet unconceived children. "No apostrophes, no capital letters in the middle of the name... Just Katherine, or Sasha, or Millicent--"

"Millicent? That's a horrible name."

Sansa laughed as she looked up at him, all smiling indignation. "No it's not! You name the baby Millicent so you can call her Milly." She had always liked that nickname, and she told him so.

"Sounds like a wicked stepmother." He handed her a dripping pair of tongs and she laughed again.

"That's  _ Maleficent _ , and no, it does not." She laughed again as she dried the tongs and put them in the utensil canister beside the stove. "We'll just have to agree to disagree," she said good humoredly, though she ignored the implications of them arguing over a baby name.

She told him of her brother Bran, who had been in a skiing accident and was now confined to a wheelchair. Well, not confined, since Bran preferred to refer to it as  _ faster than all of you _ . And about how her 22-year-old brother was finishing up a dual bachelor's program at the University across town. 

Then she told him of Rickon, her youngest sibling, who at 19 was just finishing up high school because he'd goofed off so much early on in high school and had only figured out recently how to be a responsible human being.

Then there was Jon; her cousin who had helped start Three Geeks, one of the foremost computer stores in Interior Alaska. She and Jon had never been close, but he was a nice guy and had pretty much been raised by her parents. She told Sandor about how Jon helped her anytime she had a problem with her computer, because she wasn't very computer literate.

"What  _ are _ you good at, then? Besides cooking," he added with a smile. She was finishing up drying the last of the cooking utensils with her back to him, but when she glanced over her shoulder he was standing on the other side of the sink, looking at her with his hands in his pockets.

"I'll have you know that those were canned green beans, canned cranberry sauce, and the turkey was actually pre-cooked and hickory smoked." She smiled, but he just shook his head.

"Yes, but those mashed potatoes were amazing."

"Cream cheese," she said with a wink, by way of explanation. Then she laughed and turned back to her task. "And to answer your question, I'm good at some things, I suppose. I'm good at my job; at being a good employee." She looked up as she dried the last serving spoon, noting the grain patterns in the cabinet door in front of her face. "I'm good with kids," she said, smiling. Then she slid the spoon into the canister and said, "Actually, I'm  _ really _ good with kids. And I care about them," she turned to face him, resting her butt against the edge of the counter as she crossed her arms over her chest, "which is probably why I have the job that I do. I don't get to work with them as much as I did, but I get to make sure they have the services they should have at the museum, and I make sure what they're doing is fun, and that the people who work with them are competent and like kids just as much as I do."

Sandor listened to her speak, his hair back to being combed over his scars but not thick enough to completely hide them under the curtain of black. It was then that she noticed.

"You got a haircut!" She laughed, shaking her head. "I hadn't even noticed until just now! When did you do that?"

Sandor brought a hand up, running his palm down the back of his head as he smiled.

"A couple days ago. I, uh... I didn't want to look like a hobo at your Thanksgiving dinner."

Sansa closed her eyes briefly, laughing. "I wouldn't have thought that."

"My beard was also down to my chest," he added, so she teased him.

"Ah, well, then I  _ probably _ would have thought you looked like a hobo." He smiled at her, and she turned to the fridge to get out the pie she had hidden in there. "Did you go somewhere?" When she stood up holding the pie and turned to him, she thought his eyes may have been on her butt, but she couldn't be sure because he answered immediately.

"No. Actually Gendry did it."

Sansa nodded, her mouth a silent  _ Ah _ as she put the pie on the counter. She noticed he watched her, his eyes going to the pie as he continued.

"It turned out pretty good," he said as he ran a hand over his beard, going to pull it into a point at his chin but finding no hair there to do it with. His hand dropped back to his pocket.

"It  _ does _ look nice—Gendry did a good job." To take away the intimacy of her compliment on his appearance, she turned to the counter to cut into the pie. When that was done she reached for the cabinet behind him and he moved out of her way as she took down two small plates. "Would you get the whipped cream out of the door of the fridge? You do like whipped cream and pumpkin pie, right?"

His smile was answer enough, even before he answered affirmatively. Then as he opened the fridge, and only because she was sure he had done it to her, she glanced at the way his blue jeans encased his rear, nodding approvingly as she turned back to plate the pie.

They sat in the living room; her on the armchair and he on the corner of the couch closest to her, while they ate. Music still played from the TV, and when she thought about how nice the evening had been, she told him so.

He nodded, wiping whipped cream off his mustache with a napkin she handed him.

"I agree, and dinner was great. Thank you again for doing all that cooking. I could have brought something—I had no idea you were going to make that much food."

But Sansa shook her head, picking up the last of her crust with her fingers and eating it that way.

"I didn't want you to. I know, I know, that's usually how it's done at gatherings and such, but I didn't want you to have to worry about something like that."

She looked up at him from under lowered brows, then back down to her plate. He looked at ease now, but she remembered how uncomfortable he'd looked when he had walked in the door earlier.

"So," she broached, "How was it? Coming over here for dinner, I mean."

He looked up at her quickly but the expression on his face quickly told her he knew exactly what she was talking about. Then to her surprise he smiled and laughed quietly, taking the last bite of his pie. "Nice," he said around a mouthful of food, but he chewed and swallowed, looking as though it had given him a small chance to formulate an answer. "It was... better than I expected."

Sansa blushed, choosing not to read anything into that.

"Your social anxiety?" She prompted him gently, hoping that he knew she was still trustworthy. Apparently he still deemed her so, because he answered her honestly.

"It's good, it's okay," he said, nodding as he leaned forward to put the plate on the coffee table. Then he settled back into the couch, interlacing his fingers as his elbow rested on the armrest of the couch. If anything, his body language told her he was at ease, and she liked that.

He looked over at her and continued, "Again, it was not as bad as I expected. And I think knowing you a little bit helped." He smiled slightly, and she returned it.

"Good." She glanced at the clock to see what time it was, and saw that it read just past 7:30. Sandor's eyes followed hers and he almost startled on the couch, as though she had been sending him a message.

"I guess it's time I get going," he said, already standing from his position on the couch.

"No!" Sansa said quickly, standing with him and reaching towards his arm, though she let her hand drop before it touched him. "I mean, you don't have to. That's not why I looked at the clock," she smiled. "I was just wondering if we had time for a TV show or a movie."

Sandor's one brow lifted, uncertainty showing on his face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" She laughed nervously, embarrassed that he had assumed something based on her checking the time. "I mean, that is, if you're not planning on going anywhere tomorrow, early."

He smiled and shook his head, and Sansa felt relief. She had to admit his company  _ was _ enjoyable, and she'd had a good time this evening. It would be a shame for him to eat and run. She couldn't help but feel that the dinner, the conversation, and the time together had helped form what she hoped would be a true friendship for him—a way to bring him out of his shell and into the world a bit.

And yes, she was looking forward to being part of a friendship that didn't involve her being a designated driver.


	9. December 3, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby chapter, but I had to conclude their dinner date :-)
> 
> Thank you to all who have commented and given kudos, you're amazing! 
> 
> And to those readers lurking in the shadows (I used to be one of you), you are no less appreciated <3

They sat in mostly silence, having agreed on Antique's Roadshow when she pointed out that there was a marathon going on, on PBS. It was a show Sandor often watched, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that Sansa used to watch it all the time with her father when she'd lived at home.

Towards the end of the first thirty-minute episode she had started commenting on what she thought an item was worth, insisting that a baseball with famous signatures on it was worth tens of thousands of dollars until the host informed the owner that it was a forgery. Sandor hadn't been able to hold in a laugh at her blunder, so she'd challenged him to do better.

For the next item—a souvenir from China made in the late 19 th century—he guessed early on that it would be between $1,500 and $2,000, to which she waved a hand at him in comical indignation when the host confirmed the price at $1,800 to $2,100.

It became obvious in the second half hour of the show that he watched it more than she did, as he completely outdid her in correct guesses, until she finally threw up her hands and announced she was making a pot of coffee. He watched her walk away, hair swishing against her back and dress swaying at her hips as she padded barefoot into her kitchen. Sandor found himself unable to hold back a smile, which was a completely foreign experience for him. He didn't have many reasons to smile these days—or rather, he did, such as the success of his knife designs and his perfect working relationship with Gendry, but he just usually chose not to.

So watching her now, moving about her kitchen in the small one-bedroom apartment, pulling the machine away from the wall and adding grounds to the top, pouring in the water and getting out two matching mugs from the cabinet above it; he found the smile just stayed. Had he been alone he might have even touched his face, feeling the pull on the scars at the edge of his cheek not unpleasant.

Sansa seemed to be enjoying herself as well, which only served to make his time there more enjoyable. He'd come over to give himself peace of mind, to work on Step 9, and prove to himself that he'd be able to follow through with it.

Sure, there had been several moments where he questioned it and had wanted to turn around a go home—like when he'd gotten into his truck at the cabin, when he pulled into the parking spot, when he was closing the door to his truck, and half a dozen times between the front sidewalk and the door to her apartment.

But he didn't regret it now. Now, after having a nice dinner with her; one that she had obviously put quite a lot of effort into, and after having dessert and conversation and now this bout of TV-watching.

He was having fun.

Yes, fun.

He even had to say the word in his head twice to verify that it wasn't an anomaly, some typo in his mind where his subconscious had supplied the wrong word. No, he was having fun—with a  _ woman _ —and he was actually quite loathe to see it end.

So when she called over to him from the kitchen to come make his coffee, he gladly stood (or rather crawled out of the cavernous pit her couch became whenever he sat in it), and joined her in the kitchen.

He heard EB's voice in his mind, prompting him to say something, a heartbeat before his mouth independently formed the words.

"So..." 

He stood beside her at the counter, he, again, facing it while she leaned back into it, arms crossed over her chest. "In regards to making amends," he said as he poured the steaming coffee into one of the off white mugs she had set out.  He didn't look at her, but was piecing together a sentence to follow his statement when she replied.

"Consider yourself forgiven." 

He hazarded a glance in her direction and she was smiling at him, though she didn't let it linger. Instead she turned towards the coffee maker and asked him if he wanted a side of coffee to go with his cream and sugar.

Admittedly, his coffee was pretty light. White, almost. But that was the way he liked it, so he just shrugged and smiled back as he watched her put a small dollop of cream and a packet of sweetener into her own mug before pouring coffee over the top.

From their positions in the living room, he was able to surreptitiously watch her while she focused on the television, her chair being slightly closer than his position on the couch back by the window.

She had her feet curled up underneath her, and a few times she smoothed the fabric of her dress out on her thighs. He thought he noticed that she did it when she was about to call out an estimate for an item on the screen—a sort of tell, a giveaway, saying she was about to make a move. But then, she also twisted her fingers, chewed on her fingernails, wrapped the soft ends of her hair around her fingertips, and worried the inside of her mouth when she wasn't smiling. In truth, she seemed completely at ease with him—a stranger—in her living room.

Although, he supposed he wasn't quite a stranger. Not after having been in some type of contact or another, for the last year and a half. But the way she had welcomed him into her home, fed him, and made sure he enjoyed his time in her presence, had inexplicably, irrevocably, warmed part of his heart up to her. She was truly amazing.

He couldn't keep the moment she had laid her hand on his face, remembering how he had leaned into it, from popping up into his mind. When he had expected disgust and horror, she had shown him tears and compassion. And now, the source of that incredibly therapeutic moment was sitting just a couple feet from him, and even he knew it was completely socially unacceptable to ask if she would touch his scars again, no matter how much he desperately wanted her to.

They finished up yet another episode. Sansa having utterly conceded that he was the master at guessing the values of antiques, and Sandor decided it was time for him to go. It seemed like they could both sit there and watch it all night long, but the end had to come so he decided now was a good time.

When he told her so, he saw a flash of disappointment cross her face, and though it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, he felt the same.

"I had a good time," he said as he brought their two empty mugs over to the kitchen sink. 

When he turned around he saw that she had risen from her chair and was yet again bending to get into the fridge. He was very nearly caught in the act of staring, except he saw the large bag of containers she was holding before she had fully turned around.

"You'll have Thanksgiving for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and likely for breakfast the next day as well," she was saying as she came to face him, all smile as she looked up at him.

Sandor was sure his eyes widened but he chuckled all the same.

"Thank you," he said as he took the bag from her, avoiding contact with her hands. 

He walked towards the door and put the bag down so he could pull on and tie his boots.

"We should do it again sometime. You missed Halloween as well, so there's a dinner there," she said, hanging back from the door to give him room to put on his coat. "And then there's Labor Day before that—there's always a barbeque on Labor Day—and you can't forget the fourth of July." He looked back at her to see if she was joking, and although she had a smile on her face, he detected perhaps a bit of hope as well.

"Don't forget Christmas," he added, and her smile widened as she laughed. 

He turned to pick up the bag and unlock the door, letting himself out. She paused at the door and he turned in the hallway to face each other, mirroring their positions when he had first arrived.

"In all seriousness," she was saying, looking down at her feet before lifting her eyes once again to his, "I did have a great time. I hope you did, too."

Sandor nodded, looking once more over her auburn hair, memorizing the way it looked just then. "I did," he assured her, taking in the blue of her eyes as she leaned against the edge of the door. "Goodnight, Sansa," he said finally, with a smile.

"Goodnight, Sandor," she replied, softly closing the door. He waited to hear the locks latch before he walked down the hallway.

 

 

 

As soon as Sansa watched Sandor's truck pull out of her parking lot, she pulled her phone out and took it off silent. Then she brought up Arya's name and sent a text message.

> Sansa: Arya!! Are you awake?!
> 
> **Arya: It's almost 10pm, what do u mean, am I awake. Of course I'm awake.**
> 
> Sansa: You will never guess what has happened.
> 
> **Arya: I won't, unless u tell me what it is**

Ignoring the sarcasm ever-present in her little sister, Sansa told her about Sandor, and how she now knew he was Gendry’s boss.

> **Arya: No shit**
> 
> Sansa: Yes shit
> 
> **Arya: That's crazy. Omg I have to tell Gendry**
> 
> Sansa: Small world!
> 
> **Arya: Dude, I've heard some crazy shit about him**
> 
> Sansa: Spill
> 
> **Arya: Why? U curious?**

Sansa blushed. Well, yes, she was quite curious. And she supposed that now that she had an informant of sorts, she could find out more about him. For curiosity's sake, of course. Nothing else...

> Sansa: Of course I am, he just had dinner here at my apartment and I had a good time, so I wanted to know if I should do it again.

Which was a lie, because she was already thinking about what to make for their next dinner.

> Sansa: Just tell me what you know
> 
> **Arya: okay okay cool your jets**
> 
> **Arya: Gendry has told me that he's a really good boss, though idont understand the whole employee thing. Did u know gendry gets him groceries? The dude will get stuff like ramen noodles and cereal. Poor schmuck.**
> 
> Sansa: lol he did tell me that. What else?
> 
> **Arya: I guess he's a real homebody, rarely goes out. And he has scars which is what gendry says the reason is.**
> 
> **Arya: oooo, you saw them. Are they bad? Gendry says u get used to them**
> 
> Sansa: Define bad... They must have been absolutely horrendous when he got them, but no, when you talk to him for a bit and get to know him, they become... less noticeable, I guess. Or they're just a part of him.
> 
> Sansa: I don't know, kind of like how you get to know twins, one from the other. It just happens, but you don't really notice when.
> 
> **Arya: weird. If gendry had scars over half his face id notice...**
> 
> Sansa: It's not half his face, it's part of his scalp, his ear, the edge of his beard.
> 
> **Arya: wait what? He has facial hair? Sansa is dating a guy who has facial hair? Be still my heart**
> 
> Sansa: lol you're such a dork. A – we're not dating. We had dinner one time. B - I am not allergic to facial hair.
> 
> **Arya: no but you seem 2 like baby faced guys and gendry says not only is sandpr hairy, but he's also huge as well. true?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes, he is quite tall. And hairy, I suppose, though he was fully clothed the entire time he was here so I don't have much to go on there. I suppose his neck was hairy, so that may mean the rest of him is...? I have no idea.
> 
> **Arya: You have no idea because you normally date ivy league snobs**
> 
> Sansa: lol They were not all snobs
> 
> **Arya: okay, there was one that wasn’t**

Sansa snorted out loud. Okay, Arya kind of had her there.

> Sansa: Does Gendry say he's nice? Honest? Give me the stuff you know I really want to know. Is he a good person?
> 
> **Arya: good person shmood shmerson. Can you imagine whats in his pants?!**
> 
> Sansa: I see we're done here. Good night little sis, pain in my behind.
> 
> **Arya: okay okay**
> 
> **Arya: Yes, Gendry says Sandor is the best kind of person. He says he wouldn’t be working for the guy if he wasnt**
> 
> Sansa: Okay, good. Thank Gendry for me, okay?
> 
> **Arya: Just as soon as he's done**
> 
> Sansa: Done what?
> 
> **Arya: u don’t want 2 no.........**
> 
> Sansa: Ugh, TMI. You're my sister, for crying out loud. Don't text and... that. Goodnight.
> 
> **Arya: Goodnight ;-)**


	10. February 2, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I'm giving you notice -- two more chapters after this one and then I *may* be taking a small break to rework some middle chapters in this fic. There are things that need changing, things that need tweaking, and with the help of LadyCleganeofTheNorth <3 I'll get the rest of the fic to you. 
> 
> So please, enjoy this chapter and the two after it! It's been great updating every day, but alas, all good things must come to an end *cliche, vomit. All good things must at least slow down, right?*
> 
> And by delay, I mean a week at most. I'm not going on sabbatical <3

As director of the children's museum, Sansa was responsible for attending all board meetings and ensuring the staff was represented and included in any plans made for the building and the organization. As such, she had been invited to the annual board gathering at Chena Hot Springs, about ninety miles outside of town. It was an overnight event so she had booked a small room for herself, though while many of the board members (and their families) were enjoying time in the pool and the hot tubs, Sansa preferred to spend her time in her room, reading and tinkering around on her computer.

Jon had recently sent her a new program to install on her computer that might help the new museum coordinator create better flyers and ads, and she had wanted to try it out first. So, going along with his detailed emailed instructions, she spent the better part of her evening installing and working on some mock flyers to show the young man who had taken over her job.

The following morning they reconvened in one of the large meeting halls the resort offered to guests for a fee, and completed the business laid out for them on the board meeting docket, then mingled until Sansa and a couple of board members were the last ones remaining.

One of them, a well-known octogenarian philanthropist by the name of Mrs. Holmes, approached her. This wasn't an isolated incident—she usually chose Sansa as her victim for meddling into the private lives of those around her—which is why, when Sansa saw her approach, she suddenly wished she could be absorbed into the wallpaper that was now at her back.

"Hello, Mrs. Holmes." Sansa took a sip of the water bottle the meeting had supplied.

"Sansa, dear. It's been nice to see you this weekend, did you not bring anyone with you to enjoy the resort?" The older woman looked up at Sansa with inquisitive eyes more honest than her words.

"No, Mrs. Holmes, still no boyfriend."

Mrs. Homes clucked her tongue.

"Shame, shame," she said, shaking her head and looking away towards the other man who was being welcomed at the door by his family—a wife and three young kids.

Mrs. Holmes trained her gaze back on Sansa, and said, "You're so young, dear. You should be dating, not hanging out with old folks like us." She reached out to pat Sansa's arm, interrupting what Sansa had been about to say. "Next year, dear, I expect to see you back here with a handsome young man on your arm."

Without waiting for a reply, the diminutive white-haired woman turned to amble away before she tossed over a shoulder, "And perhaps a bun in the oven!"

Sansa blushed despite no one looking at her. Mrs. Holmes always had been one to speak her mind.

A little while later, having checked out of her hotel room and positive that the last of the small families were headed safely back into town, she put her key in the ignition of her Subaru and turned, already thinking about what she was going to say in her reply text to Arya, but was brought up short by the complete lack of sound coming from her car's engine.

She turned the key backwards, purse still hovering in her left hand, and turned it back to the “on” position. Still, nothing.

She turned the key back, and sat back against the seat.  _ Crap _ . She hadn't even considered this as a worst case scenario, and now it was happening.

Robb had just given her car a tune-up, so she wasn’t sure what was going on. It seemed impossible that something would be going wrong, and especially at these unseasonably warm temperatures—she couldn’t just chalk it up to a frozen engine or anything relating to the weather.

In her rearview mirror she saw Mrs. Holmes and her grandson, who had come to pick her up, driving away. Sansa almost got out of her car to wave them down, almost.

Instead she attempted the key one more time,  _ just in case _ , but nothing happened.

Thankfully it was Saturday, as opposed to Sunday when she had to work the following day. But still, this inconvenience threatened to further ruin her day with a headache

She texted Arya about the delay and wished her well on the trip to Anchorage, and then brought up her family members one by one in the messaging app. Their responses were not encouraging.

> **Robb: We're in Delta visiting Jeyne's family, but I can leave now and be there in four hours, tops.**

Sansa declined telling him to enjoy his time in the town, situated two hours south of Fairbanks; she would be fine. Next she tried Jon, but there was no answer. She knew he often turned his phone off while he was working, and it was not unusual for Jon to work through a Saturday without seeing the light of day.  _ That guy and his computers _ , she thought, with a wry shake of her head.

Bran was at college and didn't drive, and she knew Rickon didn't even have his license yet—court's orders—and her parents were away on an anniversary cruise for Valentine's Day. Margaery didn't answer her phone (Sansa guessed she was probably sleeping off last night's alcohol), and when Dany didn't answer she figured the blonde woman was probably still in bed with her new boyfriend.

She now had the option to call one of her coworkers, or Sandor. And since she was the museum director and didn't want to come off, in any capacity, as incompetent to the people who worked beneath her in the organization, she brought up Sandor's number on the app, hoping he would answer her greeting.

While she waited, she got out of the car and entered the hotel's lobby, but not before feeling a drop of moisture land on her face before she walked through the glass double doors.

Sansa turned and looked out through the glass, eyeing her broken down Subaru in the fading sunlight of Alaskan winter. It was barely three in the afternoon, but dark would be upon them in no time. She didn't really want to pay for another night in the hotel, but at least it had been fairly cheap, with winter rates being more reasonable than during the summer.

She watched as another few drops landed on the concrete outside the door and she brought up the weather on her phone. The hourly report said to expect freezing rain by 5:00pm, but it seemed like it was going to start earlier than predicted.

Her phone chimed with a text message, and she switched apps to view Sandor's reply.

> **Sandor: Hello, how have you been?**
> 
> Sansa: Good, you?

She didn't want to tell him about the car, now not only because she felt silly being stranded ninety miles outside of town, but because she didn't want to ask him to drive in this weather.

> **Sandor: I'm good, been busy with work.**
> 
> **Sandor: Is it time for another holiday dinner?**

Sansa laughed out loud, drawing the brief attention of the desk clerk.

> Sansa: No. Well, yes, actually. But no, not today.
> 
> **Sandor: What are you doing?**
> 
> Sansa: I'm up at Chena Hot Springs, we had a board meeting yesterday and they pay for pool passes for me, the members and the families.
> 
> **Sandor: Nice. And you're still there?**

_ Crap _ . Well, he  _ was _ her last hope at getting home today, if she didn't want to pay for a cab or an Uber.

> Sansa: Not willingly. My car is broken down, and I didn't want to bother you but of all my family members, they're all either out of town, going out of town, or not answering their phones. Same for my friends.
> 
> **Sandor: I can be there in two hours. Hang tight.**
> 
> Sansa: Sandor, it's beginning to rain and it will freeze and the roads are going to be treacherous. Nevermind. I don't feel comfortable with you driving up here to get me.
> 
> **Sandor: Two hours.**
> 
> Sansa: No, Sandor
> 
> Sansa: Sandor

The rain was coming down harder now, and the sun had finally dipped below the edge of the trees.  _ Crap crap crap. _

> Sansa: Sandor, stop. Just stay home.
> 
> **Sandor: Too late. I'm at the end of my driveway. See you soon :-)**

_ Ugh, stubborn man _ . Although she was inwardly happy that someone was coming to save her. She ignored the way her heart sped up, that it was going to be Sandor riding in to her rescue, and walked over to the desk to give them her business card, letting them know exactly who's car was going to be parked in their parking lot until at least tomorrow.

Sandor was almost to the resort, and he checked the clock—5:05pm. The forecast had been wrong, as usual, and the freezing rain had started at the same time he had left his cabin. But he'd given ample time in his estimate for Sansa, allowing for slower speeds and careful driving.

He knew how much it must have sucked for her to find her car broken down when she'd been trying to leave. So, putting down his current project and taking off his welding apron hadn't been a big deal. He hadn't spoken with her in over two months—not because he didn't want to but he just wasn’t used to being in frequent contact with anyone, except Gendry. It would be good to see her again.

He may have been a little bit too eager to see her, but he ignored that feeling and focused instead of saving her from this unpleasant situation.

So now, as he drove through the arch at the resort's driveway and up to the roundabout in front of the hotel doors, he smiled when she walked out, carrying a purse, a small duffel bag, and a small cup of what looked like hotel lobby coffee.

She had pushed the door open with her back and turned to walk out, though when she looked up at him through the passenger window of his truck she smiled at him. She looked happy to see him, which was good. He hadn't thought until now how awkward it would be to be around Sansa—or any woman, for that matter—while she was in a bad mood. The only bad mood he was ever around was his own.

She drew closer, planting cautious steps on ground he knew was covered in a thin layer of slippery ice. But she was about six feet from the door of his truck, and he was opening his to get out to help her in, when she suddenly disappeared.

"Sansa," he growled, alarmed.

She had fallen, he was sure of it, had only seen her disappear in his peripheral vision as he'd turned to open his own door.

"Sansa!" He called her name when he stepped out, noting that even in his thickly treaded work boots, the ground was still slippery. He grasped his door, and then his hood as he rounded the front of the truck.

He was momentarily alarmed when he saw her, coffee a spray on the ground above her head, her bags beside her as she laid spread eagle on the ground with her eyes closed, but then she turned her head towards him.

And she laughed. She brought her hands up to her face and laughed, and through her laughter she held out her hand and told him to stop.

"No, Sandor, don't. Just get in the truck, I'll be okay." She laughed as she pushed herself to a sitting position. "Don't come over here, you'll fall, too."

"No, I won't," he insisted, though now he was smiling, too. She looked cute sitting there, legs straight out at a V from her body, her hair a mess of red against the bright green down jacket she wore. "Are you hurt?" He inched towards her until he was towering over her, reaching down for her hand.

Sansa shook her head, still chuckling as she reached one hand up to wrap her small hand around the meat of his thumb. His warm fingers wrapped around and grasped her by the back of her hand, and she could feel how strong he was when he pulled and her butt lifted off the ground.

At the same time, his feet slipped, and he suddenly came crashing down on the ice next to her with a loud O _ of _ .

"Sandor!" Now laying back down, she turned and raised herself up on an elbow, her face hovering close to his on the ice. He turned to look at her, and despite her asking, "Are you okay?!" she was also smiling brightly, her body shaking.

Sandor felt the small, freezing raindrops hit his face, knowing that in this position his hair was flung back and the whole scarred side of his face was exposed, so he raised a hand to shield it, looking up at her incredulously.

"Are you laughing?" Her shakes turned to belly laughs as she dropped her forehead to his shoulder.

"I tried—to tell you," she said between breaths, bringing her face back up to look at his. "Why didn't you listen to me?!"

He was momentarily struck dumb at her beauty. There was no other way to word it—her hair falling beside her face, a curtain of red that was so long it pooled on the ground, her pale skin glowing in the low light and her soft lips spread over white teeth. Even her eyes seemed to be smiling at him, as one of her hands rested on his arm closest to her.

"I was going to help you," he said, smiling but unable to laugh around the wonder caught in his throat. She was close enough that he could put a hand on the back of her head and bring her down for a kiss.

It was that thought that made him close his eyes and turn away from her, unable to join in her laughter. He sat up and rose to his hands and knees, though now that he wasn't faced with the desire to kiss her, he was able to smile at their predicament.

"Fucking hell," he swore as he brought a foot underneath him. It promptly slipped, and he looked at her, now sitting up with a huge smile on her face.

"Big man having a hard time?" She laughed then, and scrambled the remaining few feet to the door of his truck, dragging her purse and duffel bag behind her. "Come on, Sandor," she said as she stood, pulling the door open.

Sandor laughed then, making a second successful attempt at bringing himself up to stand. He stood with his arms out at his sides a bit, steadying himself and making sure he could stand without falling.

"I'm not fucking crawling," he said good-naturedly, smiling at her as he shuffled his way back to the door of the truck. She had put her bags on the seat between them and was sitting on the passenger side now, door still wide open. Sandor made it to her, stopped, and braced one hand on the edge of the door and one on the side of the truck.

"Are you okay?" she asked, still smiling but now allowing concern to tinge her voice. "I'm so sorry," she said softly, "I didn't mean for that to happen. Did you hurt yourself?"

Sandor let his head drop and he shook it, laughing, though the move also served to bring his hair back in front of his scars. It was a move he didn't even recognize himself doing now, though it always made him feel more comfortable.

"I'm fine," he said, bringing his eyes back up to hers. "You?"

"I'm okay, just my dignity is bruised." She was still smiling at him. He liked how she had called him Big Man.

"Mine, too," he admitted, smiling ruefully. "Should we get going, then?"

At her chuckle, he closed the door and inched his way around to the driver's side of the truck.

On the slow drive back to town, Robb texted Sansa to let her know he could bring his car trailer out on Monday to pick up her car. She told Sandor she wasn't crazy about missing a day of work, but appreciated Robb's offer. She accepted, telling Sandor as she typed that she promised Robb the use of her employee punch card whenever he wanted after her niece, Sophia, was born.

Sansa explained to Sandor that Robb owned Capable Mechanics in town. He'd heard of it, and remarked on how it was one of the few reputable auto mechanic shops in town. Sansa beamed, and went on to tell him that her entire family, though slightly dysfunctional and downright odd at times, was made up of a good group of people. She had told him about them before, but it was nice listening to her—listening to  _ any _ one, really—talk about their family in such a positive light.

"So," she asked, "Is Gendry as nice a guy as what Arya says he is?"

Sandor seemed to think for a moment before replying.

"He is. I mean, I've told you all the things he does for me, and I don't even pay him for all of it. I try to make up for it in his salary, but I get the feeling he'd still be here even if I didn't give him raises." Sandor slid his hands down the sides of the steering wheel and dropped one hand to his lap as they limped along the ice-covered road. "He's honest," Sandor continued, "and has a good heart. He's a caring guy." He looked over at Sansa, just a glance, and his eyes darted down the length of her before returning to the road. She wondered what he was really thinking when he went on to say, "The way he talks about your sister and your family, he really likes them all. I'd say he genuinely cares for your sister, based on what he's told me."

"That's good to know," she responded, looking out the window at a frozen lake they were passing. "My sister can be hard to handle sometimes. We haven't always gotten along. Her personality is so... Big. Sometimes it can be hard to talk to her, especially when she gets it in her mind that something needs to be a certain way. So if she likes Gendry as much as she says she does, she's definitely hooked." She shot him a look with a smile, but his eyes were on the road and he didn't look like he was very happy.

She let the conversation drop and they listened to the quiet music on the way home, occasionally saying a few words but for miles and miles, the conversation never really picked back up.

Sansa wondered at the cause of his quietness, since they'd had such a funny moment outside the hotel. Seeing him like that—laid out flat on his back after falling while trying to rescue her, had struck her as funny and adorable at the same time. And then when she had brought her face so close to his, she had sworn she'd seen something in his eyes, something that looked suspiciously like attraction.

She had to admit that she'd felt it as well, seeing the thickness of his beard so up close, closer than it had been since their Thanksgiving dinner when she had laid her hand over it. And his gray eyes, smiling and deep, pools of gray that she could have spent much more time looking into. His scars had been warm, as snowflakes melted as soon as they fell on them, and when he had brought his hand up to shield his face she'd noted in her mind how large it was compared to her own.

Her own, that rested on the warmth of his arm through the thick jacket, even as she had trained her eyes away from looking at his mouth.

_ Crap _ , she thought. Sandor was her friend, a man who needed a friend, not a woman fawning over him. And here, in the truck, in the small space where they shared air and their thoughts seemed to bump each other like comic bubbles, she was contemplating her growing attraction for him.

It was frustrating, these new feelings. She didn't  _ want _ to be attracted to him, but the way he had looked at her, there, laying on the ice, made her wonder about what was going on in his mind now.

So it prompted her to look over and ask him what he was thinking. She didn't expect the flash of alarm that passed over his face before he glanced over at her.

He took a bit too long to answer her and she felt that when he did speak, it wasn't the truth.

"I have some custom orders I need to finish up; orders that I've been putting off until the last minute." Sansa watched as his hair trembled when they drove over bumps, the long strands brushing at the top of his coat.

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him, studying him with a look similar to a famous Catelyn Stark stare-down when one of her children wasn't being entirely truthful.

Sandor looked at her and then back to the road, but he must have seen something because he looked back and smiled slightly.

"What?!" he asked, innocently. Sansa smiled in response, and shook her head.

"No, I mean, what are you  _ really _ thinking?" She continued to look at him as he trained his concentration on the road, occasionally shooting her an unreadable look. Then he sighed, his hand coming back up to rest on the steering wheel. She watched him worry at his lower lip before sighing through his nose again, and then he spoke.

"What are we doing, Sansa?" The question caught her off guard. "I mean, what are we  _ really _ doing?"

"What do you mean?" She turned to face him again, bringing her left knee up onto the bench seat again as she angled her body towards his side of the truck.

"I mean, are we friends?"

Sansa's mouth fell open, and she remembered to close it just before he looked over at her.

"Yes, of course we are, Sandor. Why would you ask that?"

He seemed to think about his answer, and was silent for a few moments. Sansa was puzzled by this train of thought coming from Sandor. She wondered how hard he had hit his head in the fall outside the hotel, before he answered her.

"What if..." He paused, and looked as though he didn't really want to say anything else. But then he pursed his lips and gave the barest shake of his head. "Sansa, I'm no good at this."

"At what?" she asked him, after he paused again.

"I'm not good at reading women," he said in a rush, and she had to smile at his obvious discomfort. She hadn't expected this topic and was interested to see where it went, but couldn't help but be interested in this new, unsure Sandor.

"What if," he said again, "What if I wanted it to be more?" He said that last bit in a rush, and she could see his hands grip the steering wheel tighter.

_ Oh _ , she thought. Well, she hadn't expected that. She had thought perhaps something else was bothering him—not  _ her _ . She looked out the window, not quite knowing what to say to that. Part of her enjoyed the quickening of her heart rate, at the idea that he wanted to, what—date? Move beyond this texting/dinner friendship they had going on? She knew he was kind and generous, and handsome, as well. But dating? Was that moving too fast?

Then she inwardly laughed at herself. She actually  _ did _ consider their friendship to be two years old, even though it had only recently moved past the realm of cyberspace into the physical.

She saw Sandor glance at her out of the corner of her eye, and she clasped her hands in her lap.

"I, uh..." She wanted to reply, but didn't know what to say.

"Forget it," he stammered, "I mean, it was just a thought. Just forget I said that."

Sansa smiled softly out the window, thinking that he sounded more like a bumbling teenager asking a girl out instead of a grown man contemplating the next step in a relationship. And just as she had that thought, she realized the crux of the situation.

He was a hermit, a recluse because of his scars and his perceived public shaming. She realized, with a bit of fascination and a lot of compassion, that he most likely hadn't dated much, if at all. Therefore, he didn't know how to navigate this part of relationships. Admittedly, she wasn't so great at it either, but she was pretty sure she had years of experience over him, despite the age difference.

"No, no," she said, in a voice as reassuring as she could make it, "I think we should be open with each other. Honest, you know?" Sandor didn't reply. He just kept gripping the steering wheel like it might run away at any moment, staring out the windshield at the frozen road.

"Could you define 'more'?"

Sandor shot her a look that fairly dripped exasperation. He was nervous, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that wasn't there before.

"This isn't Jeopardy, Sansa. I think you know what I mean when I say 'more'."

But did she? And did she want to consider it? She pictured herself holding his hand, touching his thigh, walking beside him while holding onto his arm. Then there was introducing him to her family, going on dates, having intimate dinners.

Their first kiss.

She blushed, feeling the absolute fool for thinking something so... something that made her feel so warm and flustered inside. What would kissing him be like?

She stopped that train of thought from leaving the station, and thought of the rest of it, the things that didn't include their faces coming into contact.

"Do you mean, dating?"

His breath came out in a whoosh, and he nodded slowly, not looking at her. Sansa looked out the window, feeling more and more like it was an appealing idea, as the moments dragged on between them.

"I, um..." Again, she looked out the window, and she wondered if he was looking at her. Their friendship—was it worth risking, over trying to become more? But even as she asked herself that question, she felt silly. She was starting to feel that pull of attraction towards him, and he may have—probably had--to feel attracted to her, as well. So was this an inevitability?

She looked back over at him, though he only looked at her once before returning his eyes to the road, as patient now as ever, waiting for her answer. Sansa took the opportunity to think on dating a man like him—so unlike what Arya said was  _ her type _ . But as she thought on him now, she realized she  _ did _ like how tall he was and how she had to crane her neck to look him in the face. And she  _ did _ like his hair; the length of it, how she had thought several times that it looked soft, and  _ how would it feel to touch it _ . That he was a homebody, a scarred recluse, didn't bother her. She was a homebody as well, though not to the extent that he was. And his scars in no way detracted from the handsomeness of his features.

Considering he had already offered to do something for her that was out of his comfort zone, going to her house for Thanksgiving dinner, she thought that perhaps he would be open to trying other things, as well; more public things, though that could be brought up in time.

"So," she said, abandoning her original thought process and veering off to another one, "you might want more?" She said this with a growing smile on her face as she turned to look at him. He looked at her, his face a mask of uncertainty. "With me?" she asked, her smile wide now as he huffed, as his eyes darted over the scenery in front of the truck.

"Yes, with you. Damn it, Sansa!" She tried not to laugh, a certain amount of happiness welling up inside her at the thought of dating this big man, this surly presence that she was able to fluster with a simple smile.

"I think... I think I like that idea." He turned his head so fast his hair swished around his neck, and he looked back to the road and back to her, then back to the road.

But all Sansa did was smile sweetly at him, and looked back out the window.


	11. February 12, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Gendry's a smartass to his boss <3

> **Sandor: I'm fucked, Gendry**
> 
> Gendry: y do u say that?!
> 
> **Sandor: First off, you can't say anything to your girlfriend**
> 
> Gendry: ah. Wuts up with sansa
> 
> **Sandor: I asked her to date me**
> 
> Gendry: ur showing ur age
> 
> **Sandor: How so??**
> 
> Gendry: people don’t date these days
> 
> **Sandor: Then what are you doing with her sister?!**
> 
> Gendry: wut I mean is it’s a little more involved. Ots not like ur gonna take her 2 a drive in and get shakes after
> 
> **Sandor: Okay okay, I understand that. But what do I do now?**
> 
> Gendry: well what have u done together
> 
> **Sandor: We've had dinner at her place. In November.**
> 
> Gendry: november?! christ, ur gonna have 2 do more stuff, more often. November. Geez
> 
> **Sandor: What do you mean, more often? How often?**
> 
> Gendry: like weekly. ndon’t go more than 2 days w out contacting her
> 
> **Sandor: Why?**
> 
> Gendry: chicks dig it, guys keeping in contact like that
> 
> **Sandor: How would you know? You're not fighting women off with a stick, you know**
> 
> Gendry: no, but im doing better than u
> 
> **Sandor: Ha. So what do I do now? I drove her to work last Monday and haven't talked to her since.**
> 
> Gendry: wtf that was a week and a half ago
> 
> Gendry: valentines day is in two days
> 
> Gendry: text her. now.
> 
> **Sandor: And say what?!**
> 
> Gendry: youre gonna have 2 figure that out
> 
> Gendry: shes YOUR girl
> 
> **Sandor: What do you say to yours?**
> 
> Gendry: I say whats on my mind
> 
> Gendry: youll figure it out and youll get 2 know what she likes and doesn’t like
> 
> Gendry: arya saays sansa likes spending time with her family and watching romance movies but she doesn’t like clubbing or scary movies
> 
> **Sandor: Fucking Gendry. Did you tell Arya what I'm asking you about? I told you not to.**
> 
> Gendry: but I never actually agreed and shes looking over my shoulder
> 
> Gendry: she says don’t screw this up
> 
> **Sandor: … Goodnight**

Sandor didn't know what he was doing. He'd asked Sansa to date him, to pretty much be his girlfriend, and he didn't even know how to go about it. What. The. Fuck.

Gendry was little help. And fucking Arya—though he supposed that if he wanted tips on how to woo Sansa, Arya was who he should be going to.

But Gendry had said he needed to text Sansa right now, so he decided to do that, once he figured out something nice to do for her for Valentine's Day. He thought he had something in mind that she would like.

> **Sandor: Hello Sansa**
> 
> Sansa: Hi Sandor! How are you doing tonight?
> 
> **Sandor: Good, you? What are you up to?**
> 
> Sansa: Hanging out. Just put in a pizza for dinner. You?
> 
> **Sandor: I didn't work today, did some stuff in the shop and caught up on some reading and paperwork.**
> 
> Sansa: Do you live far away? Do you want to come over for dinner? Pizza won't be ready for almost thirty minutes.

_ Uh, well, shit _ . He hadn't expected that. He glanced at the corner of his phone screen, noting that it said it wasn't quite 6:00pm yet. It's not like he had anything to do early in the morning.

> **Sandor: I live twenty minutes from you, just outside of town. And sure, I'd like to come by.**
> 
> Sansa: Great! See you soon!

Sandor put his phone down on the end table beside his recliner. Then he looked down at himself. He wasn't particularly dirty, but he hadn't showered since yesterday and...

He was pulling his clothes off as he walked towards the bathroom, and in less than two minutes was heading naked into his bedroom to find clean clothes.

He pulled up to her apartment building exactly twenty-five minutes after she texted him that she would see him soon. He was nervous, despite having already been here before, and after having been in the parking lot once more when he'd offered to drive her to work the day after getting back from the hot springs when her car broke down.

And that reminded him, he hadn't even asked her if Robb had gotten it fixed. He felt like an idiot, walking from his truck to the front door of the building. He wasn't good at this, at showing that he cared. At remembering  _ to care _ . But he wanted to get better.

He pressed the button for her apartment and almost immediately her voice came through the scratchy speaker.

"I'll buzz you in!"

He heard the door unlock and took the elevator up to her floor, where he quickly found her door. She must have been waiting because she opened the door a split second after he knocked.

And he froze.

Which wasn't horrible, because it seemed she did, too, only she was smiling brightly and he wasn't. He was too distracted by her outfit.

She was wearing a gray sweatshirt sporting the local university's UAF logo on the front, but the sleeves had been cut and shortened almost to her elbow, and the entire neck had been cut off, so it now hung wide and off one shoulder. And there was no bra strap on that shoulder, only a thick rope of golden red braid hanging down over her chest.

The sweater was bad enough—well worn and draping over her, hiding only the curve of her waist but eliciting reactions from his imagination that threatened to cut his evening short. But her pants—those stretchy second-skin pants made from thin fabric that he'd seen women wearing on TV—encased her legs in a solid bright blue with an all-over print of some small, floral design in a slightly lighter blue.

She looked fantastic.

"Hi Sandor," she said, leaning into the edge of the door like she'd done the first day he stood there on her landing.

"Sansa," he said, though he realized upon saying it that he had to clear his throat.

"Come in, come in," she said, opening the door wider so that he could come through. "I'm so glad you could come by! The pizza should be done any minute now." She pushed the door shut as he shrugged out of his jacket, and he watched as she turned around and walked barefoot across the apartment to the small kitchen. Beneath the elastic bottom hem of the sweater he could see just the slightest curve of her bottom.  _ Those pants should be illegal _ , he thought, before he dragged his eyes away to untie his boots.

He followed her into the kitchen and almost turned around to retreat to the living room. But he didn't and instead he stood at the corner of the fridge, his feet still on the carpet just outside the kitchen, watching her as she reached into the upper cabinet where her dinner plates were (the sweater rode up to expose more bottom), watching her bend over to get the pizza out of the oven (this was a bad idea), and turning around to smile at him, face red and flushed with the heat of the oven.

"I hope you like meat," she said, and she handed him a plate before turning back to the pizza to roll a cutter through it.

"I'll eat just about any pizza," he said, hoping to take his mind off her body.  _ For fuck's sake, get a hold of yourself _ . "Except anchovies and pineapple." He stood beside her, holding his plate, as she set the cutter aside. She laughed.

"That's too bad, Hawaiian pizza is my favorite. Here, bring your plate over here."

Sandor obeyed, stepping up to the counter beside her, close enough that he could hold his plate close to the pizza on the cutting board while she pulled two large pieces onto his plate. He could smell her again, that sweet berries and cream that he was starting to recognize as her.

But she was handing him a piece of paper towel and telling him to sit on the couch as she plated her own food and joined him there. He was surprised when she sat on the other side of the couch instead of her armchair, as she had done the last time he was here. But the way she sat, with her back to the armrest and her legs drawn up with her feet underneath her, made for an intimate setting. He liked having her this close to him.

They talked throughout dinner of inconsequential topics. He asked about her job and she insisted she was still happy, though she mentioned again not being able to work with the kids as often as she would like. He asked after Arya and Gendry and also about her car, which Robb had fixed. 

Sansa wanted to know what projects he'd been working on lately, and what it was like living alone, outside of town.

"I've always liked it," he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin after swallowing his last bite of pizza. Sansa noticed and reached for his plate.

"More?" She asked, already untucking one leg in anticipation of getting him more food. He nodded and thanked her, then again, watched her as she walked away. She glanced back at him, obviously unaffected by his gaze on her. "It gets lonely out there, doesn't it?" She brought him back two more pieces, along with another slice for herself. When she sat back down she seemed a bit closer, and he could swear he was feeling her body heat through the knee of her leggings.

"Sometimes," he said, though he didn't really want to get into it.

"Maybe you should get a dog." He looked over at her, a mouthful of pizza wadded up in her cheek after taking a too-big bite. He smiled at it, but she covered her face with her napkin and laughed. "I was hungry," she said by way of explanation.

"A dog, huh?" He hadn't ever thought of that, getting a dog. Though at his age, a companion like that might be nice.

"I've always thought of getting one. I grew up with dogs at my parents’ house, and it’s been a dream of mine to have one since I was a little kid and my mom took out a VHS copy of 'Lady And The Tramp.' So now, if I ever get a dog her name will be Lady." She smiled at herself, at her childish fantasy, and he smiled in return, still working on his pizza.

A few minutes later, when they were done with their pizza, and he took their plates into the kitchen to rinse them in the sink, returning to settle on “his” side of the couch. Though this time his leg touched hers, and he didn't move. She responded by resting her knee against his thigh.

"I was wondering, would you like to come have dinner at my cabin? On Tuesday?" He saw that she knew exactly what he was doing when the slow smile spread over her face.  _ Thanks, Gendry _ , he thought.

"Our next holiday dinner?" Sandor smiled at her assumption, though he shook his head.

"Yes and no," he said, and he looked away for a beat, gathering his courage. When he looked back at her she was still smiling, but her brows were drawn together, a look of confusion marring her perfect forehead.

"Yes, it will be our next holiday dinner, but also because it's Valentine's Day and just I want to do something nice for you." His heart was beating wildly, and he felt silly for this reaction. If he had led a normal life, this wouldn't have been so hard. He would know what to do when a woman seemed interested in him, and he would know all the tricks and moves that she would like.

But the way Sansa was looking at him now, he was pretty sure he'd said the right thing. Her head was slightly tilted towards her upright knee and she was smiling at him.

"Sandor, that's so sweet. I'd love to."

Then she leaned forward and pressed the lightest kiss to his bearded cheek before standing up and moving away from the couch.

It was another  _ what the fuck _ moment, though not in a bad way. Seriously? All he had to do was invite her over for dinner and she kisses him on the cheek? He would have raised his fingertips to the spot, just shy of the line of his scars, if she hadn’t been looking back at him now.

"Would you like to watch a movie with me?" She had picked up two remotes from underneath her TV and was walking back to the couch when he nodded, still in awe at what she had just done. And this time, when she sat down next to him, there was no mistaking the contact their bodies were now making—shoulder to elbow as she sat closer to him than she had all evening.

For crying out loud, he was acting like an inexperienced teenager. Which, he supposed, to a point he was. He'd had sex before, though he was ashamed to admit it wasn't a  _ more times than you could count _ scenario. And he had had women who were interested, but only insofar as he could please them in the bedroom. So now, when he was sitting on a couch next to a woman who seemed to actually enjoy his company, and who had no experience with him in the bedroom, he was nervous that he was going to screw it up.

But thankfully they spent the next five minutes browsing movie download selections and settled on one of her favorites--'You've Got Mail.'  _ Thank you, Arya _ , thought Sandor, as Sansa adjusted herself next to him and he wrapped his arm back onto the top of the couch. He didn't touch her, but that didn't stop her from tucking herself under his arm and into his side.

Sansa sat with her knees drawn up, resting against his thigh. She looked up at his face, close enough to kiss, though again he resisted. No need to scare her—or himself. 

"Are you comfortable?" she asked, a smile on her soft lips.

"I am," he assured her with a nod.  _ Those eyes _ , he thought.  _ Incredible _ . "You?"

"Very," she said, and he returned her smile as she pressed Play.


	12. March 20, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading this! I'm working on those edits I promised, so have no fear--I won't leave you hanging too long <3
> 
> I think this chapter will have many of you going "Awwwwwww, squeeeeeee, omgoodnessfluffiness<3" lol

“So you haven’t even kissed?? What about Valentine’s Day?” Arya tipped her coffee back, taking a big gulp and then wiping her mouth with the heel of her hand. Sansa was pretty sure that hand then went under the table to her jeans, but she wasn’t going to say anything.

Things had been going well for her, and she was happy. Her job was busy, Sandor was a kind and thoughtful boyfriend, and she felt like she was at a good place in life.

But when she told Arya of the status of her relationship, Arya balked, leaving Sansa to defend herself.

“Valentine’s day was nice. We had dinner at his place and watched a movie together. We’re just taking it slow, that’s all. Getting to know each other. Do you even know what that means?”

Arya laughed and shook her head, though her eyes showed that Sansa had clearly hit a nerve. Arya and Gendry had been dating for quite a while by then, but Sansa knew her sister had previously exchanged boyfriends like she changed her socks.

“Of course I do, but that totally sounds like a boring Valentine’s day. You’re way more old-fashioned than I am. Besides, isn’t dating just practice for you guys? Older people?”

“What? I’m only two years older than you, Arya. I’m not old.”

“No, but Sandor is.”

“Thirty-six is not old.”

“Then why haven’t you kissed him? Like I said, dating is practice for marriage for people like you. Why didn’t you kiss him on Valentine’s Day? Oh, the things Gendry and I did...

Sansa cringed at that last part. She had been about to take a sip of her own coffee when she put it down on the table at Arya’s words, a little bit too hard. Coffee sloshed out of the small opening, and she mopped it up with her napkin.

“What on earth are you saying? Who are people like me?”

Arya rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair.

“People who aren’t into dating around. I mean, I know you’ve been on dates before but  _ come on _ , you have  _ Wants To Settle Down _ written all over you.”

Sansa sniffed, but she didn’t have a response. She looked away, closed her mouth, and pondered Arya’s words for a moment. 

“Well… Suppose you’re right--I  _ wouldn’t _ mind settling down. What does that have to do with the fact that we haven’t kissed yet?”

Arya laughed at her, loud enough to turn a couple heads in the quiet coffee shop. Sansa shushed her, and then took a polite sip of coffee to cover her embarrassment.

Arya calmed herself and offered, “To see if you’re compatible,” in an obvious tone, as though she was the leading authority on relationships.

“Compatible? We’re not talking about sex, Arya.”

“No, no, I’m not talking about that, either. Though that is  _ a lot _ more fun if you kiss, too.” She giggled at Sansa’s blush but kept talking. “I’m saying what if he’s a sloppy kisser? Or, okay, if you don’t want to try kissing, what about just flirting?”

“Flirting? Why do I need to flirt? I invite him over, I cook for him, we cuddle on the couch, talk, and watch TV. Isn't that good enough?”

Arya gave Sansa her best  _ Are you kidding me? _ look. 

“Flirting is letting him know you’re interested in him. You can’t just operate on autopilot when he’s around. You need to use your words, move your body, and interact with him in such a way that he  _ gets the message _ .”

“The message being…?”

“That you’re attracted to him. It doesn’t matter what you’re attracted to--his body or his mind, his work ethic, whatever. What matters is how you tell him.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“I don’t know, Arya. I’ve never been good at this.”

Arya rolled her eyes. Arya was  _ always _ rolling her eyes.

“That’s because you’ve always been pretty and guys have always flocked to you. You’ve never had to work for it. But I have--”

“Horseface.”

Arya coughed, laughing so hard that they were shushed by the table next to them. Sansa apologized, though when she looked at Arya she let the smugness show.

“Yes, well,” said Arya, composing herself. “Thank you for the reminder, Oh Precious Beautiful Daughter.” But she was smiling, and Sansa smiled. She liked this--spending time and enjoying time with her sister. Just something else that was going right in her life.

“How about this--text him that you miss him. Right now.” Arya nudged Sansa’s phone closer to her, but at Sansa’s bewildered look, she scooted her chair around the table and drew up Sansa’s home screen.

Sarcastically, she said, “Look, this is how you text--you press this button and a keyboard pops up.” She chuckled as Sansa bumped her with her shoulder.

“I know how to text, Arya. I just don’t know if I want to do that.”

“Why?? Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Ugh.  _ Miss him _ , of course.”

Sansa didn't really have to think about it, as she smiled all the time when she thought of him.

“Well, yes,” she said, but then she addressed what Arya wanted her to do. “But he's not really the… mushy type.”

“Oh, please.  _ All _ men are the mushy type when a pretty girl is flirting with them. So look, get him talking. Say  _ Hello _ .”

Sansa texted it to him, and they set the phone down. Barely ten seconds later, came a reply.

> **Sandor: Hello, I didn't expect to hear from you until later. Everything okay?**

“Ugh, see? I'm already acting out of character.” Sansa sat back and took another drink of coffee. “What do I say now?”

Arya was hunched over the phone.

“I said to get him talking. So talk for a minute.”

Sansa sighed, but did as her sister suggested.

> Sansa: Yes, everything's okay. How is your day going?
> 
> **Sandor: Good. Got a couple custom orders done, and started on some new projects.**
> 
> **Sandor: Gendry is coming over later to talk about the shop. He always wants to make improvements and I haven't regretted any of them. Yet.**

“Hey!”

Sansa just smiled at Arya.

> Sansa: What kind of new projects? 
> 
> **Sandor: Shop knives, ones I keep in the shop.**

“Arya, I don't know what else to say!”

“Think of something! We need to lead up to the flirting. I'm going to go get another coffee.”

Sansa shook her head, saying, “You'll be bouncing off the walls.”

Her sister gave her a positively lascivious grin as she walked away, causing Sansa to grimace.

She turned back to the table and tapped her fingers on the table. If she hadn't chewed them down, her nails would click against the surface. She supposed that was one thing she had in common with Arya.

Thinking back to texting Sandor, while Arya had abandoned her to chat up the guy and girl behind the counter, Sansa settled on honesty, which also just happened to sound a little flirty.  _ Score one for Sansa _ .

But as she typed it out, she held her breath, her breath hissing out between her lips.

> Sansa: I've been thinking about you.

She cringed. Now that she saw it on her phone, it looked lame and unoriginal. But he texted back almost immediately. 

> **Sandor: I've been thinking about you, too.**

Sansa blushed.  _ Roll with it _ , a loud voice in her mind demanded.

> Sansa: Yeah? What about?
> 
> **Sandor: Your smile.**
> 
> Sansa: You like it?
> 
> **Sandor: It makes me happy to see it.**
> 
> Sansa: Your smile does the same for me.
> 
> **Sandor: Is that what you were thinking about? My smile?**

Okay, now she didn't want Arya looking at the screen. Did that mean this conversation was flirty? 

> Sansa: That, and--

_ Oh god,  _ she didn't know what to say. She looked at the unfinished text and chewed at her lip. His hands? They were one of his best features. So we're his wrists, thick and strong. And his forearms, and biceps. She didn't think she could span his biceps with her fingers--she’d wondered that before. His shoulders? Sculpted, but no. Strong neck? 

Was there anything about his body she  _ didn't  _ find attractive.

_ Well, no _ .

> Sansa: Just everything about you.
> 
> **Sandor: Everything? Even my wit?**

Sansa burst out laughing, so loud that even Arya glanced over with one eyebrow raised. Sansa just smiled at her and looked back at her phone.

> Sansa: You just made everyone in the coffee shop look at me.
> 
> **Sandor: You laughed?**
> 
> Sansa: Of course I laughed.
> 
> **Sandor: You don't think I'm witty?**
> 
> Sansa: Well… ;-) 
> 
> **Sandor: So if you're not with me for my wit, why ARE you with me?**
> 
> Sansa: Should you be asking me that?
> 
> **Sandor: Shouldn't you know the answer?**
> 
> Sansa: You play dirty, sir.
> 
> **Sandor: Must be why no one calls me “sir"**
> 
> Sansa: Okay, I'll bite.
> 
> **Sandor: Promise?**

Her heart flipped in her chest, and she wiped a palm against her thigh.  _ Arya would have loved to see  _ that _ line _ . She hoped Arya didn’t catch the blush that was making Sansa’s face warm.

She could imagine Sandor waiting for a response so she moved on quickly, answering his previous question rather than rising to his ill-concealed bait.

> Sansa: lol… I’m with you because you're nice.
> 
> **Sandor: Be still my heart.**
> 
> Sansa: Hush lol
> 
> Sansa: You’re fun to be around, and you're teaching me a lot about the prices of junk people have in their attics.
> 
> **Sandor: True.**
> 
> Sansa: And you're good dinner company. I like cooking for you because you always eat what I cook.
> 
> **Sandor: Well, that's more of a compliment for yourself. You're a damn good cook.**
> 
> Sansa: Thank you, that's sweet.
> 
> **Sandor: It's true.**
> 
> Sansa: You're also a hard worker, which is definitely a check mark in the Positive column.
> 
> **Sandor: Is there a Negative column?**
> 
> Sansa: Well, actually, no… :-)
> 
> Sansa: You're also comfortable to lean on.
> 
> **Sandor: Is that so?**

Sansa was wandering into dangerous territory with that line of thought, but she decided to trudge forward.

> Sansa: Yes. You are very comfortable. We fit well together when we watch TV. I like it.
> 
> **Sandor: I like how well we fit together, too.**

Sansa knew he couldn’t possibly be using a double entendre… she thought. 

Hoped. Wondered. Blushed.

> **Sandor: What else?**
> 
> Sansa: I think you're very handsome.
> 
> **Sandor: If I was in a coffee shop everyone would be looking at me right now.**
> 
> Sansa: lol
> 
> Sansa: I'm being serious. I like your long hair, your eyes, your beard, and you wouldn't be Sandor without your scars.
> 
> **Sandor: Right. You like my scars.**

She paused, laying her phone down and picturing him in her mind. She could see the skin of his temple and scalp--rigid with crevices and knots. The remains of his ear, and the way the scars travelled downward beneath the collar of his shirt. How often had she wondered how far they went? That meant they intrigued her, right?

Yes, she did like them. She wanted to feel them again, to touch them and show him that they didn't scare her. But she couldn't tell him that. Not yet.

> Sansa: I do. They are a part of you, and you wouldn't be my Sandor if you didn't have them.
> 
> **Sandor: Your Sandor? I like that.**
> 
> Sansa: I do, too. All of you. 
> 
> **Sandor: So does that mean you're my Sansa?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes, it does.
> 
> **Sandor: I like that, too.**
> 
> Sansa: So do I.

“Now we're talkin’!” Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice at her shoulder. She turned and glared at Arya, who was leaning over shoulder with a new coffee.

“Were you reading what I wrote??”

Arya smirked and sat in her chair.

“Only since you told each other that you belonged to each other.”

Sansa chuckled, embarrassed. 

“Don't spy. The Flirty Text Lesson is over,” she tossed back at her sister.

Her sister took out her own phone, smiling as she held it so Sansa could see the screen.

“Okay, I'll demonstrate.”

“No! No. I don't need to see what dirty secrets you and Gendry swap in text.”

“Okaaaaay,” Arya replied in a high voice, picking up her coffee and using it to cover her mouth. “But you could leeeearn something!”


	13. April 4, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I apologize first? I can't seem to write a story without angst. Rest assured, this is a pared down version of what I had originally written. I just couldn't do that to you guys <3
> 
> Have no fear, happy ending in sight! <3

Sansa suddenly had an amazing man in her life who made her laugh, wanted to spend time with her, and who was gradually coming out of his shell, both to her and because of her.

One day he texted her about Gendry and Arya, and Sansa groaned when she saw what he wrote.

> **Sandor: I think your sister is bad for my employee.**
> 
> Sansa: Why do you say that?? 
> 
> **Sandor: She is all he talks about now.**
> 
> Sansa: That’s bad?
> 
> Sansa: Arya says Gendry says the same thing about you. 
> 
> **Sandor: Liar.**
> 
> Sansa: Okay, I’m lying, but it’s not a bad thing that he’s doing that lol.
> 
> **Sandor: Do you want me to talk about you like he talks about Arya?**
> 
> Sansa: Well, yes, maybe, but only the good things. 
> 
> **Sandor: So I can’t talk about how you chew your nails**
> 
> **Sandor: Slurp your soda**
> 
> **Sandor: Try to distract me from Antique’s Roadshow with your hand on my thigh  
>  **
> 
> Sansa: What?? I don’t do that lol 
> 
> **Sandor: Are you sure? Because it’s really distracting.**
> 
> Sansa: lol You lose because I’m getting better at assessing value.
> 
> **Sandor: I lose because I have a pretty woman sitting beside me. Period.**

She didn’t let him off that easily, though. And the next time they watched it together, she kept her hand off and he still lost.

They spent a couple evenings each week at one or the other’s place, having dinner and watching TV. Nothing ever progressed physically past snuggling on the couch, though Sandor would wrap his arm around her now and hold her to his side while she would rest with her head against his chest, a hand on his thigh or his knee. That’s how she found out his heartbeat was strong and steady, and how she’d learned underneath all those clothes, he was solid muscle.

Spending time at his cabin also meant Sandor revealed to her just how messy he was. He’d been embarrassed, though perhaps a bit standoffish when she had giggled and sent him a  _ look that said  _ really _? _ when she had first walked into his living room. It was like he hadn’t even cleaned before she'd arrived, though he’d sworn he did. Clothes were strewn about and she couldn’t tell what was dirty and what was clean. His sink was piled with dishes, his desk was a mess of paperwork, and his bathroom was tidy but only because he lacked anything to make it look nice.

It was in deep contrast to the way she lived, which they had talked about that second time he'd gone over for dinner. Before leaving he had remarked on how clean her apartment was, and she told him it was because she never let it go too far, and that everything—no matter how small, had a place to be put back.

So the second time she had gone over to his place, Sansa asked him if she could tidy up a little bit. She asked, in the nicest way possible, if Sandor wanted some help with his place. She also said that she would help him maintain it, because when he’d misplaced an important tax form, she had been the one to find it. In the kitchen.

Sansa felt that helping him in this way—completely nonjudgmental, and out of kindness and compassion—was what spurred him to accept her offer. So they started with the desk, choosing one task at a time until that day they had tackled and cleared his desk. And to top it off, he had seemed to enjoy it, which she could certainly understand. Her growing awareness of his presence, his body near hers, was starting to worm its way into her mind throughout the day.

So as they sat next to each other, her on the comfortable office chair and he on a wood dining chair, going through forms and folders and sorting, and finally using that filing drawer at the bottom of his desk for its intended purpose, Sansa hadn't been able to prevent the heat from pooling low in her body at the scent of him. She was thankful for padded bras when he put his arm on the back of her chair and leaned in, looking closely over her shoulder at some papers she had found that needed a place to go. 

His breath had tickled her neck, and it reminded her that she had never seen his bedroom, a thought that made her squirm in her chair.

She almost didn't make it through the task, but he leaned back and continued helping her help him—handing her manila folders when she asked and placing them (labelled with her neat handwriting) in their proper places in the filing drawer. The entire process went smoothly, except for their proximity. That had frazzled her nerves.

They had steadily moved through the living room and the kitchen, assigning tasks to different days so she was coming over on a regular basis. In exchange for help, Sandor always had a dinner planned, usually frozen pizza. She didn't mind, though sometimes she brought over a salad for them, or a dessert. And when they were through with the living area, and she had told him at some point they were going to make his bathroom more welcoming, she asked (through a furious blush that she hoped he wouldn't notice) if he wanted to clean his bedroom as well.

So today she was at his cabin, a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies sitting on the counter next to the empty pizza box. They would begin his bedroom tonight and work on it every few days until it was done, never spending more than an hour or two at any one task. This, she had emphasized to him, prevented burnout, though she silently added that doing it together, with him, was just as preventative. They  _ both _ enjoyed that time together.

And after cleaning they had a date set for in front of the television, with some new episodes of Antiques Roadshow that neither of them had seen.

"Are you ready?" Sansa looked up at Sandor, who was wearing an old, worn t-shirt that had holes along the bottom hem. It showed off those biceps she remembered from the Halloween photo she still had on her phone. Biceps that she recently on occasion had the opportunity to surreptitiously discover with the pads of her fingers as they sat on the couch.

He also had a kitchen trash bag on one hand, as did she. Sansa was wearing a soft pair of jeans and a loose, high-necked green tank top, one of her favorites to wear now that the weather was warming up. She could wear it with jeans, or it doubled as a work top if she tucked it into one of her skirts with a smart cardigan on top.

Today was also the day they took all of the clothes that they had washed and folded, and found places for them in his dresser or closet. Sansa had teased him, but she knew he just never had anyone to teach him to do something as simple as sorting clothes. It broke her heart when he had explained that he'd never learned, and it made her want to double her efforts to help him turn his hole of a messy bachelor pad into a comfortable place he actually enjoyed spending time in.

After they had taken out all the clothes from the dresser and closets, Sandor found that he actually had a whole trash bag of clothes that were still in decent shape and barely worn, so Sansa told him she would drop it off in the clothing donation box in front of the children's museum. Once a week a local organization for people with disabilities came around to collect them.

While Sansa avoided the stack of folded boxer briefs, she and Sandor refilled the drawers with clean, folded piles, and hung any sweaters and jackets in the closet. It was a surprisingly big task, so when it was completed they were both ready for a break.

To her surprise, rather than leaving the room Sandor sat on the bottom edge of the low king-sized bed, his hands on his knees. He looked up at her, hair falling over his scars.

"I really appreciate this, Sansa."

She nodded, though she crossed her arms over her chest and turned around to look at the contents of his room. Seeing him on his bed, knowing they were alone, was bothering her, and not in a negative sort of way.

"It's no big deal, Sandor," she said, tossing him a smile over her shoulder. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun and a tendril came loose as she turned back to look at the top of his dresser. She tucked the hair behind her ear and walked over, eyeing the line of books that ran from one side of the dresser to the other.

"Bookworm," she said affectionately, and he chuckled. 

She knew he liked to read, but this was an eclectic array of subjects. She bent over to read some titles and saw some history books, some geography, books on knights and medieval times, books on warfare and weapons, and an assortment of forging and knifemaking books. There were a few novels thrown into the mix, but she could see he was a non-fiction reader.

"What kind of books do you read?" His voice was low, quieter than it had been before, and she stood, walking over to the window to look out at the faint light of dusk. Despite the late hour, the long summer days were steadily becoming short summer nights, and the surrounding countryside was already showing the effects.

"Oh, you know, some novels, romance books, and poetry. I like biographies, and I have quite a few history books and animal books." She turned back to him, leaning back against the wall next to the window as she added, "I love wolves, so I have several books on them."

But that wasn't what he caught onto, as was obvious when he smiled from his perch on the end of the bed.

"Romances, huh?" His hands seemingly unconsciously rubbed at his thighs a couple times. Sansa blushed.

"Yes, well, when one tends to meet douches and a-holes, one must seek fulfillment elsewhere." She smirked at him, having successfully defended herself against an anti-romance novel attack. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"I never said there was anything wrong with them. But... are we talking Jane Eyre or bodice-rippers?"

Sansa's eyes widened before she burst out laughing, bending over at the waist at his use of the nickname for some of the seedier romance novels.

"Where on earth did you learn that term?!"

"I watch a lot of TV, I saw an interview where an author tried to claim her novel was  _ not _ one. She failed--it had Fabio on the cover."

Sansa blushed again, remembering her reaction oh so long ago to that Halloween photo. She smiled, and decided to tease him as he had her.

"You know," she said, as she slowly walked over towards him, "That photo you sent me? The Halloween photo?"

Sandor's eyes darkened as he watched her approach, though he made no other outward sign that he was affected by her closeness. She came to stop just feet from his knees.

"Yesss," he said hesitantly. He looked into her eyes, his own narrowing in suspicion. Sansa smiled a gloating smile, letting smugness take over her facial features.

"I actually thought there was a chance you looked like Fabio, with that welding mask on."

Sandor's mouth fell open in shock before he laughed out loud, a deep, manly laugh that gave Sansa goosebumps.  _ Bra, do your job!! _ Then suddenly he was reaching between them and he pulled her between his spread knees by her belt loops, his face level with her breasts from where he sat on the low bed.

Sansa giggled, but tried to cover up the thrill of being so close to him. His face was turned upwards at her, his hair having fallen back to reveal all of his scars to her, and she could see again how they extended down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. She had seen it before, but never as clearly as she did now. She let feelings of warmth and affection mix together with the thrill and excitement of his hands resting on her hips, his fingers still looped into her jeans.

"You thought I might look like Fabio?" he growled, a sweet smile on his face that belied the sexy humor that radiated from his eyes, that reverberated through her chest at the sound of his words.

"Well," she said, attempting brevity and failing miserably, "you wore a mask and I couldn't see your face. Didn't mean I wasn't painfully curious."

The last was said barely above a whisper, and she watched Sandor's eyes dart to her chest before rising back to her face. 

Then she did whisper, "We need to get you a bed frame," though it was meant to be merely a thought. The words had escaped from her lips. 

Until now her hands had been clasped in front of her stomach, but they came apart when he tugged her, just an inch or two closer as he spoke.

"You were curious about what I looked like?" 

He unhooked his fingers and palmed her hips now. It made Sansa's legs unsteady and she brought her hands up to his shoulders to brace herself, or she thought she might just tip over from the faint.

"You were..." 

She sought the right words, wondering where this embrace was going. They had never been this close before, in such an intimate position, and she was achingly aware that there was a massive bed under him, behind him. Just knowing this, she felt desire building within her.

"Intriguing," she said, though she doubted her ability to finish this conversation. Sandor seemed determined to draw it out, and she wondered if he was doing so, so the moment wouldn't end?

"Intriguing," he said slowly, enabling Sansa to watch as his lips formed the word. His lower lip looked soft and inviting. The teeth behind, straight and white. 

Then they spoke again and she watched his mouth as he said, "Do you know what I thought when I first saw your photo?"

Sansa smiled. She  _ did _ remember this.

"You said you thought I was a 50-year-old divorcee." Sandor's eyes closed and he chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. But Sansa added, "You also said it was cute."

"I did say that," he agreed, eyes opening again, "but that's not what I was thinking." 

Sansa's mouth formed the word  _ oh _ , though she never said it out loud. Sandor nodded, his eyes boring into hers. "I was thinking how sexy you were in it."

At that Sansa blushed furiously and looked up at the ceiling, thinking  _ ohmygodohmygodohmygod _ .

"Sansa," his raspy voice said, her name a statement instead of a request. She looked down, into those gray eyes that were so intense she thought she might get lost in them.

"My birthday is in three days," he was saying, and her eyes widened, momentarily pulled away from the erotic emotions swirling through her at this small revelation. Then, when his gaze did not waver and it remained pinned on hers, she was brought back to the current situation before her body could recover from his close proximity.

She swallowed, asking the sensible question that came after a statement like that.

"What do you want for your birthday?"

There was a low rumble in the space between them, and Sansa realized it was coming from Sandor, a growl of sorts that reverberated in her rib cage like bass tones from live music. 

Her fingers played with the seam on his shirt at the tops of both shoulders, though underneath her left hand she could feel the bumpy skin beneath, close to his collar, whereas beneath her right hand lay smooth muscle, hard and unyielding. It was like two sides of Sandor—the blemished and the unbroken. Except right now it was the unbroken, real side of Sandor, that was looking at her with desire writ all over his face.

The silence hung between them after the growl, so tangible that Sansa wanted to ask it to leave the room. But when Sandor spoke next, she could hear the breath that she had been holding, finally leave her body.

"A kiss," he said, his voice confidant and masculine. His hand lifted to follow a soft path down the side of her face, breaking contact at her jaw as his hand returned to her hip.

For a moment her breath hitched again, and she thought her heart was going to beat out of her chest. But then something caught her eye, a glimmer of something in his eyes she hadn't yet seen. With a sudden blink of his eyelids she knew, as though she had been signaled, that what she saw was uncertainty.

With immediate clarity she knew he was afraid she wouldn't want to kiss him, and her heart broke for him all over again. This broken man, who had been beaten down and who had beat himself down, was afraid of rejection, and that realization tore at her heart.

She moved her hands first, sliding them inwards towards his neck, her mouth dropping open as she watched her own hands touch him on an area of his body that had been fascinating her since that long ago conversation with Arya.  _ Hairy neck _ , Sansa had told her sister, and now she could feel the soft hairs tickling her palms, the contradiction of hair and scar confusing the palm and fingers of her left hand before they slid up into the hair of his beard.

Her hands cupped his jaw, her thumbs stroking the coarse hair on his chin. She moved her right hand towards his mouth and drew the pad of her thumb over his lower lip. His mouth opened just slightly, and Sansa's mimicked it, while watching herself touch him, feeling this intimate spot on his body.

She felt his hands leave her hips, the burning surfaces of them sliding down over the seams of her jeans before being smoothed backwards to curl around the sensitized skin at the backs of her thighs. She felt his thumbs stroking her through the thin denim material, thinking she had never felt anything so sexy as the contact his hands were making with her body.

Her heart was beating fast inside her chest, and now she drew her eyes upwards until they met his. She was aroused beyond anything she had ever felt before, the warmth spreading down into her legs, making them feel as solid as melted butter beneath the hands that stroked her there. And that look in his eyes—desire, hope, a sexy combination of confidence and inexperience—was doing things to her heart, was going places in her heart, where she had never let another man go before.

So when she lowered her lips to his, her own confidence spurring her to action, she paused just a hair's breadth away from making contact, seeking out his eyes with hers. She willed her emotions to shine through them a moment before she closed them and pressed her mouth to his.

It was slow, like time being sifted through an oiled cloth, as her lips pressed to his. It was slow because, she knew, this was new to both of them—perhaps not kissing, but kissing someone you so desperately wanted to kiss at that moment. So she took it slow, savoring the soft lip slowly sliding over hers, the tickle of the mustache on the skin below her nose.

And then it was a dance—pull away, open slightly, return, draw skin between her lips, pull away, tilt, open slightly, return, gently suck on his soft lip. Then she tasted him, drew her tongue across the surface of his lip, inviting him to taste her as she wanted to taste him.

She very nearly collapsed when she felt a hand leave her thigh to cup the back of her head, when he pulled her closer with the hand on her thigh as her mouth was drawn closer by the fingers in the hair, on her scalp. Then there was no more hesitation, and it was as though the dam broke and he growled his lust into her mouth as he took her, thrusting his tongue and making her whimper against his lips.

Her legs could no longer hold her, so as she began to sink he pulled one of her legs over his, anchoring her knee to the bed before he repeated the process with the other, and suddenly she was straddling her big man and he was wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her into his body, as though he couldn't quite get her close enough.

Sansa’s hands went into his hair, and in the back of her mind came the thought  _ you were right, it's soft, _ and in the insanity of the moment she smiled against his lips, almost laughed except she felt Sandor’s hands on her skin now.

They had slid under the fabric of her shirt and were on her back, his touch at first light and unsure, but then quickly becoming more sure, more insistent, as time went by without a protest from her. They rubbed upwards, over her bra strap and to the tops of her shoulders, then back down, down to the curve of her waist and lower, to the curve of her backside where it hovered over his lap. When they landed there he grasped her and pulled hard, grinding her into the hardness in his lap.

It suddenly felt to Sansa that her top was the most offensive piece of clothing she owned and she wanted it gone, so between kisses she ground out, "Sandor.." His hands continued to rock her pelvis against him, and she realized she was helping him, feeling the way that rock solid length of him was rubbing her in exactly the right spot. "My shirt," she gasped, tension building inside her as she grasped his hair hard enough to make him growl at her again. God, that growl would make her come, she was sure of it, it was so damned sexy.

"Off," she said, and he caught onto what she was saying. One moment he was controlling the movements of her hips and the next, her tank top was a flash of green fabric over her face and then it disappeared, to be replaced by his lips against hers once again.

It was animalistic, what they were doing. She could feel the way her body moved, as though she was not the one controlling it. Surely she had never moved this way, ground her sex down onto a man's lap in this fashion, though her body told her it was everything that was right and good and pleasurable. That this man beneath her was right and good and pleasurable.

So when he tore his mouth away from hers and left a burning trail of whiskered kissed across her jaw, down both sides of her neck and down the center of her chest, she lifted up on her knees and pulled his head against her sensitive skin, laying her cheek against the heat of his head, inhaling the scent radiating off his body of sweat and shampoo, of man, of Sandor.

She didn't want any of this clothing that was constricting her from being against him, skin to skin. She pulled away long enough to drag his shirt up and over his head, whipping it away as though it had offended her. Still in her bra, she pushed him slightly to reach his lips again, but this time it was her mouth that wandered away from it's target, kissing over his bearded jaw, down the corded column of his neck and to the top of his shoulder, laying open-mouthed kisses over the surface of his scar where it tapered out and ended at the cap of his shoulder.

Then she returned, running her hands over his chest and arms as his own came around her, once again driving her down to rub against his arousal.

She brought her lips back to his as she felt her bra suddenly loosen, and with a burning excitement driven by desire through her bones, she raised up again as he immediately took her nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive skin as his hand found her other breast. He used his hands to knead the soft flesh, and she felt him cup it, measuring its weight inside his large palm. She covered his hand with her own, and that small action seemed to breath more life into him as he groaned against the skin of her breast. He switched quickly, giving the other nipple the same attentions.

It was too much, it was all too much for Sansa and she grabbed Sandor by the hair, lifting his head and tilting it so she could say against his ear, her voice a breathy, ragged whisper, "I want you."

There was only her and him, then. Her cries, his growls, as jeans were stripped, panties ripped, hair fell from its bun, and she was struggling to crawl backwards on his bed as he was drawing his body over hers, their mouths clashing together, all lips and tongues in their eagerness to mate.

The tangle of their limbs was soon sorted and suddenly he was there and pushing inside her, and it  _ hurt _ . But she grasped him to her, having known all along that her first time would likely be painful. Sandor wasn’t a small man and it had stood to reason that  _ all _ of him would be big, but…

_ Damn _ . He was inside her fully, his body completely connected with hers, as his face cradled into soft skin above her shoulder, withdrawing and thrusting to a rhythm she knew should have caused her pleasure.

It wasn’t, but she had feelings for him and she wanted to please him and she wanted this to be a good thing. He moved over her, her thighs bumping his sides, her heels digging into the backs of his legs. Sansa held onto his shoulders, feeling ashamed at the sting of tears in her eyes. He was enjoying it, he wasn’t complaining about anything, and she allowed her hands to smooth over the skin of his back and to feel the muscles beneath, the way they moved and rolled in his powerful torso. 

It was over soon after it began, and Sansa could only feel a sense of relief. Sandor’s body gave a couple last jerky movements and he settled down on top of her to catch his breath.

It was in that moment that the magnitude of what she’d done descended over her like a dark cloud.

Her virginity was gone, and she had gone into the evening having not actually decided to give that up. And yet she’d done it, and had participated in it, and she couldn’t shake the regret that slowly built in her throat.

Sandor held himself above her, though their bodies were still connected, and his covered hers, a warm, slick shape that, just a minute before, would have been her most erotic dream ever. But now it was... 

He was so handsome and virile and manly and any and all adjectives she’d ever want to use on the man with whom she made love for the first time. But the regret choked her, and it pushed all other thoughts from her mind.

She knew she couldn't look at him, couldn't look at his face with mortification on her own knowing she’d be unable to hide it. She couldn't do that to him, couldn't... couldn't...  _ couldn't what?! _ She felt him slide out of her as he moved to the side, and he was trying to pull her back, a hand on her arm, the sound of her name on his lips.

"Sansa, what's wrong?" His voice was quiet as she glanced at him, an indecipherable emotion coloring it so that it sounded strange, though that might have been her own body blocking him out. She shot him a weak attempt at a smile, and saw his brow furrow in concern.

The soreness between her legs felt damning, as though it was a living thing pointing an angry finger at her.

"Christ, Sansa, talk to me," came his voice, and she attempted the smile again before giving up. It just wasn’t going to happen. She knew he was there, naked, laying on the bed, waiting for her to say something.

“I, uh…” What could she say?  _ Thanks but no thanks? I just gave up one thing I’ve held dear my entire life? I can’t believe I did that? _ Nothing she thought of sounded good.

So she rolled off the bed and bent to gather her shirt and jeans, though she couldn't find her panties. 

“I’m okay, Sandor,” she said, but she didn’t look at him--couldn’t, not with her naked and bending and finding her clothes, embarrassed now at being in that state. “I just--I’m going to go clean up.” Her bra was in the doorway so she stooped to pick it up as she walked into the bathroom just outside the door of the bedroom and closed the door.

 

 

 

Sandor was confused, his mind empty for lack of any rational thought. What just happened had been perhaps the most amazing thing ever, and she was acting like… like…

How was she acting??  _ I’m okay _ ? He’d seen the regret on her face, but his mind wasn’t working correctly enough to decipher why. 

He watched her gather her clothes and she walked out just as he stood to pull on his jeans. But when he looked down he saw a small smear of blood on himself, and then over on the sheets where they had just... Where they had just...

He was at the door of the bathroom in seconds, his hands clenching at his sides so he didn’t give into the temptation to pound them against the surface.

"Sansa..." Even to his own ears, his voice was splintered, as though all the emotions of the last ten minutes were warring over each other, with despair winning out and rising to the top.

She didn't answer him, and he knew this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He would have laughed had he not been so shaken.

She had been a virgin.

A virgin, and he had taken that from her. He tried to think back to what he had done wrong, if there was a point during any of it where he missed a sign, a signal from her that she wanted him to stop. But all he remembered was covering her body with his own, them fitting together as though they were made for each other, her hands touching him and holding him, and him entering her body without so much as a helping hand to aim. 

A virgin.  _ Christ _ , this wasn’t what he wanted. This was worse than finding out he'd lost his virginity to a devious high school girl, worse than having to pay a woman for sex because he was rejected by any woman he'd ever made an advance to, worse than being shoved into a campfire by his older brother.

Because feeling like his heart was fragmenting within his chest was worse than having his skin melted off by burning hot coals.

"Sansa," he said softly, his voice coming out as a plea this time. "Sansa, I didn't know." He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as he pressed his forehead against the door. "I didn't know, Sansa, I swear I didn't know." Then, because he couldn't figure out anything else to say that might possibly make this situation any better, he said in a ragged voice, "I'm sorry," through the crack in the door, pressing his face to the crack like a child, desperate to be closer to her than this. He wanted to rip down the door, to tear it off its hinges and throw it across the living room before dragging her into his arms and consoling her, but it was too late.

The door clicked open and he stepped back, unsure of how to proceed. It wasn't every day that he ripped from virgins their very identity, nor was it every day that he completely and irrevocably betrayed the woman he was starting to love.

She was dressed, and as she walked out, head down, eyes on the ground, he watched from his station by the bathroom door. His mouth was hanging open but he didn't care. He was too shocked at what he was seeing to think or do or say anything.

Sansa's hair was down, and she was using it to hide the tears he could see on her face.

He knew that feeling, knew the look of it as surely as he knew she was a woman and he a man--she was hiding from him, and he watched her scoop her keys up off the corner of the kitchen counter, slide her bare feet into the boots she had worn over, and take her jacket off the coat hook without so much as attempting to tie the laces on her boots. Then, with her back still to him, she walked to the front door, opened it quietly, and shut it silently.

Sandor stood there for an unknown amount of time. It could have been a minute, it could have been thirty, staring at the door all the while not quite believing that she wasn't coming back inside.

He felt a drip on his chest and realized he was crying. Not small, hesitant tears, but big ones, and lots of them. He just watched the best thing that ever happened to him walk out his door, and he couldn't get her back. There was nothing he could do to bring her back. He couldn't take back what had happened between them, the pain she must have surely felt, or the betrayal he knew she was feeling.

He couldn't take any of it back, but he knew of one thing that could rid his mind of it.

Later, looking back, he didn't remember pulling on a shirt or shoes, getting into his truck, or driving out of his driveway. He didn't remember the five-mile drive to the liquor store, or paying for two bottles of cheap whiskey, or the drive back during which he had pounded away half a bottle. But what he did remember, later, after he was well into the second bottle and his body was dead weight, full of lead and regret, that he managed to text EB three words,  _ I fucked up _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrestled with posting this, and even considered a major rewrite. With the help of LadyCleganeofTheNorth, I think this is a pretty well thought out chapter.
> 
> I really seem incapable of writing stories without a good amount of angst. ~sigh!~
> 
> Please be kind, but as ever, let me know your thoughts in the comments. I appreciate all of them, read all of them, and try to respond to all of them. Thank you!
> 
> \- Holland


	14. April 4, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments the last chapter received! 
> 
> Although this lovely duo isn't out of the woods yet, please know I take all your critiques to heart and greatly appreciate them.
> 
> I'll try to post a chapter once every few days from here on out, as I'll be carefully editing and reviewing them all before I do so.

Sansa drove home, parked in her spot, entered her building, and texted Arya that she needed her sister. Arya texted back that she was on her way. Sansa knew she had taken advantage of her little sister just then, knowing the younger Stark would respond to such a cryptic, emergency text. But she couldn't bring herself to care.

She lasted until she pushed the door of her apartment shut and walked to her couch. But there she sat and began to cry.

It was there that Arya found her, having used her spare keys to get into the building, and to get through Sansa's door.

Sansa remembered mumbling something about Sandor, but her heart was too devastated to form coherent words. It was as though she'd been drinking all evening, and all of a sudden, the buzz hit her like a freight train, and she'd been a tiny little car, stupidly stuck on the tracks.

But then Arya was pulling so that she could lay Sansa's head down on her lap, where she cried. And cried, and cried, and cried. At one point she figured out that Arya had texted Gendry, because suddenly he was in the apartment, making a pot of coffee, setting out two cups, and gently putting a box of tissues on the coffee table beside Arya before slipping out as silently as he had come in.

Sansa's brain wondered if he had been downstairs, holding the door open the whole time, waiting to see if he was needed. He's a great guy, she wanted to tell Arya, but the words were too heavy for her body to lift them off the bottom of her empty heart.

When she had cried enough tears that she thought there might be none left, she lifted her head and let Arya out from where she'd been stroking Sansa's hair. Arya quickly made the two cups of coffee and put them on the coffee table, then helped Sansa get out of her coat.

It seemed silly, but at the same time it was what Sansa needed at that moment, as she curled up into a little ball on the couch, wrapped in her mother's afghan, leaning against Arya's chest as her sister once again smoothed the hair on Sansa's head.

And Sansa told her everything. She left nothing out, because she knew Arya would be asking about it if she'd had. And to Arya's credit, she didn't make a sound, not one peep, even during the retelling of the foreplay and the actual act, where Sansa had blithely given away her virginity to Sandor. But then there was the pain she was sure was caused by him being so big, so overwhelmingly Sandor. She told Arya about leaving the room, gathering her clothes and abandoning Sandor, walking out on him when he likely needed as much consoling as she did.

At that, Arya sent off another one-handed text and set her phone down, resuming the hair stroking and comforting nods against Sansa's crown.

"What have I done, Arya," she cried, tears coming afresh. "I've f-fucked up so many things tonight, I don't even know where to start."

That's when Arya finally spoke, a hushed tone coming from her that Sansa almost didn't recognize as her sister. But suddenly she heard the inflection of their mother's tone, reflected in the only other Stark daughter, and it was strangely comforting.

"You didn't fuck anything up, Sansa, except perhaps the running part. I do think you should have stayed." Sansa would have laughed had she not been so upset. She wiped her nose with another tissue. "I'm serious," Arya continued. "You may have rushed into something neither of you were ready for, but that doesn't make it a mistake."

"Are you kidding?" Sansa's voice was nasally, her nose plugged from all the crying. "I gave up my virginity, acted like a total hussy, completely forgot that he's emotionally fragile from a bad life, and then I—I—walked away when he probably needed me most." She cried into her sister's sleeve, swiping at her eyes with yet another tissue. Between quiet sobs she said honestly, "I don't know if I should be sad for him, mad at myself, or sad for myself."

Arya didn't have a reply to that right away, so they sat in silence, Sansa's occasional sniffing peppering the air with noise. As she sat, she felt herself calming and hoped she’d soon be able to think on the evening with rational thought.

She thought back to what had happened between her and Sandor, feeling a touch calmer as the warm coffee worked its way through her system. She didn’t think the enormity of what they—she—had allowed to happen was any less now, but everything that had led up to that moment was becoming a bit clearer to her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it all. 

It was true, she had never been that turned on in her entire life. Not that she had gotten physical with many men, but Sandor was... Sandor was different.

Sandor was her big man, her broken man, the one person she wanted to see every week, to talk to on the phone, to text from work. He'd been so sexy, sitting there under her, touching her and coaxing her, allowing himself to be coaxed into a wave of passion that had taken them both under its current.

She knew about his past with women, and cringed now at what he must be going through, Sansa having capably seduced him, and then rejected him, so finally, so bluntly. It made her eyes fill with tears again.

But then again, there had been the pain when he'd moved within her, after that initial feeling of welcomed intrusion, and she had known that he really was a big man.

But… her virginity… She cringed again, still able to feel the soreness between her legs that would not be ignored.

The two sides warred within her, and she wanted them so much to be reconciled--for her feelings for Sandor to stop choking her with guilt, and for the mortification of what she allowed to happen to dissipate like smoke on a breeze. It was too much, it was all too much.

"Sansa," Arya said softly.

Sansa turned her head slightly in Arya's direction to let her know she was listening.

"I think you should try to talk to him--" Sansa almost spoke but Arya shushed her, and went on, "--because he probably doesn't know what's going on. You said that he didn't know until afterwards that you were a virgin? If that's the case, then... you kind of owe him an apology. No, don't get upset with me, I'm telling you the truth."

Sansa’s own worries suddenly quieted at Arya's next words.

"My first time was with a guy I barely knew, and he didn't care for me. Do you see the difference? I felt the pain, I felt the same horror you did at what I had let happen, but in the end it was him who left me because I'd given him what he wanted." Arya's short brown hair trembled as she shivered, her memories causing her physical discomfort even now, which Sansa knew was years removed from the incident.

"You, on the other hand, have a guy who adores you. No, don't try to deny it, Gendry tells me when Sandor is talking about you he goes all puppy dog eyes and thoughtful. That man apparently worships the ground you walk on."

Sansa smiled weakly at that, though she continued to listen.

"It's a pretty sure bet what happened between you two—making love--you--you fucked, for crying out loud. Sex, okay? We'll call it sex.” Arya waved her hands, flustered at her attempt to censor her words for Sansa. “Anyway, you certainly must have wanted it when you were sitting on his lap, right?!"

Sansa blushed at Arya's words before nodding.

"Yes," she said softly, "I suppose I did. But... But it just hurt so much, and it wasn’t until after that I realized I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to do it," she sniffed, cringing again at the memory of the whole thing. Utter mortification and embarrassment was overshadowing her affection for Sandor.

"But did you tell him No?" Arya raised an eyebrow at Sansa, knowing the answer already. "Did you tell him to stop? Because, honestly, if you did, I'll go cut his balls off myself."

Sansa snorted. Then she smiled, and chuckled a bit. Thank God for Arya.

But she shook her head. "No, I didn't tell him to stop." Quite the opposite. She knew--by how she had acted in those moments before they were naked and scrambling up onto the bed together, and even after they had started when she had urged him on, waiting for that moment when it would become pleasurable--that no man would have misconstrued her purposes. She'd been like a bitch in heat, and he had responded like a hound with a great sense of smell.

Arya threw up her hands in exasperation and picked up both of their coffee cups. She refilled them in the kitchen and prepared two more mugs of steaming fortification before sitting down opposite Sansa on the small couch, looking at her directly in the eyes.

"Sansa, what you have with Sandor is good, and it could be great. But it's hard—relationships are hard.” Arya took a sip of coffee and out her cup down on the table resolutely. 

“Seriously? You're gonna fuck up. And Sandor's gonna fuck up. And together, you guys are going to make really big fuck-ups. But the idea is to come back together stronger on the other side." Her little sister reached out and took her hand, rubbing the back with one palm. "Do you think, truthfully, that you can do that? Admit to making a mistake, and make up with Sandor?"

Truly? The emotional monsoon currently drowning her in humiliation and regret was ebbing, and hazy visions of a future with Sandor were seeping into the edges of her vision.

Sansa was prevented from answering by an obnoxious tune on Arya's phone, some druid chanting something or other, announcing her text message. The younger Stark glanced at the screen and bolted upright, shock on her features.

"What is it? What is it, Arya?!" Sansa needed an answer, because the look on Arya's face was not normal.

Her sister looked up at Sansa, brown eyes wide with alarm.

"Sandor's in the hospital."

 

Sansa and Arya stood now in the Emergency Department of the hospital, waiting as the nurse at the check-in station released the lock on the door so they could go through. 

Sansa was empty handed because she'd forgotten her purse in their rush to get out of her apartment. Arya had driven Sansa's car, because Sansa wasn't in a state of mind to be a legal driver, and because Gendry had gone to check on Sandor after reading the short text Arya had sent him about what had happened between him and Sansa.

Her nerves were frayed. No, worse. They were shot. They were beyond recognition. She kept wondering, how could an evening that had started out so promising, now leave her with such a devastated soul? They had been cleaning, talking all the while, and then the cleaning had moved to his bedroom where... where...

She couldn't even think of it, couldn't get past the torrent of lust that had crashed over her at the feel of his arms around her, the way he'd pulled at her body, explored her mouth. Tears slipped from her eyes now as she remembered his smell and his taste, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her sweater so she could follow the signs leading the way. There was a part of her, deep down within the darkest corner of her heart, where a light was growing—growing into the sadness that she might never experience that with him again.

She walked quickly, Arya beside her, following the signs on the walls that led her left, right, straight, to an elevator and a sign that read ICU 2nd Floor. Sansa felt like she was in a daze, knowing this was something she had to do but dreading it.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a somber faced Gendry with hands clasped in front of him. He approached them both, though Sansa noted Arya slid her hand into the one Gendry offered as though it had always belonged there. Sansa's heart twisted, her mind wondering if she’d ever get the opportunity to do that again with Sandor, while at the same time happy that her sister had found someone with whom she felt comfortable enough to act like that. 

“Gendry, this is my sister, Sansa.” 

Arya offered a small smile but it seemed like no one really wanted to bother with one. Sansa held out her hand to shake Gendry’s, unable to stop herself from sizing up the man who had captured her sister’s elusive heart.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he said. 

His voice was deep, though not quite as deep as Sandor’s, and without the familiar rasp. 

“You as well.” 

Sansa looked at the young couple, wanting to puzzle out their relationship but also aware it was time to go see Sandor. Arya spoke first, looking between her sister and her boyfriend before suggesting her and Gendry go to the cafeteria.

“I have my cell phone on me, so just call if you need me.” 

But Sansa felt as though her feet were rooted to the spot she was standing on, stuck there by the sudden thought that if Sandor woke up--when, she prompted herself--he might not want to take her hand.

He might reject her, as she had so cleanly done to him when she had walked out of his cabin.

Suddenly she didn't want Arya to leave her, and her sister saw this, as she let go of Gendry’s hand to wrap Sansa in a tight hug. 

“Arya, what have I done?” Her voice was barely a whisper into her little sister's hair, but the thin arms wrapped around her tightened. “What if he doesn't want to see me?”

Arya shook her head against Sansa's shoulder. Gendry looked off to the side, not leaving them in private but not intruding on the moment, either. Sansa was suddenly grateful for him--for being considerate and a good match for her sister. 

“You'll never know unless you go up there.” 

Arya set Sansa away from her, her hands on Sansa's sweater. 

“Don't be a coward,” she said with a small smile. “Face this head-on, and you won't regret it.”

Then she watched as Arya and Gendry walked away, her nerves once again coming loose at the edges.

She refused to let anxiety get the better of her, so she pushed the elevator button and waited for the doors to open to admit her into the large carriage. In moments she was standing at a set of large, tan double doors, holding an old-fashioned phone handset that hung on the wall beside the doors.

"Hello – ICU Nurse's station, can I help you?"

Sansa swallowed.

"I'm here to see Sandor Clegane." His name felt like a foreign language on her tongue, such that she was being forced to say it in this horrible setting.

"And your name and relation?" The woman's voice on the phone was polite and warm, but Sansa shivered at the question. She answered with what she thought would get her to his room.

"Sansa Stark... I'm his girlfriend."

There was a short pause before the woman replied, "Hold on for just a moment. He has one visitor right now, I'll see if that visitor minds someone else. We normally don't allow more than one visitor at a time, so... Just a moment, okay?"

The nurse's voice had suddenly become warmer, and by the time she'd finished her explanation she was downright consoling. Sansa wondered who the other visitor could be, as Gendry and Arya were in the cafeteria, giving her a chance to see Sandor alone.

After a couple of minutes had passed the voice came back on the line--"I'll buzz you in, okay, hon?"

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, wondering why she hadn't packed her pockets full of those cheap, ultra-absorbent thin tissues hospitals always kept on hand.

The door clicked and she pushed it open, feeling the weight of it push against her, like a figurative rock going uphill. That's how she felt—that everything that happened from here on out was going to be anything but easy. But she had to do this, for Sandor as well as for herself.

She glanced around as she walked through the darkened, quiet hallway that seemed like it would be more appropriate for a haunted house than an ICU. Just after the hallway was another hall to her left, rows of doors and glass walls showing closed curtains. Then there was the nurse's station where four women sat behind desks just on the other side of a taller counter. 

The woman closest to her, a younger woman likely not even out of her thirties, looked up and smiled softly at Sansa. She was pretty, blonde hair pulled over her shoulder in a ponytail, not a stitch of makeup on her face.

"Sansa?"

Sansa smiled briefly and nodded, not knowing what would happen if she actually tried to speak.

"He's in room two-twenty-seven, down this hallway." She waved her hand in the direction of the second hallway, just past the Nurse's station, and Sansa nodded her thanks. Her steps did not speed up, though. On the contrary—as she got closer to the hallway they slowed, until she turned and faced the long empty space, her feet failing to move her any closer.

She wondered which door was his. The one on her left, the closest to her, read 218, and the one just a bit down on her right read 219, so he was going to be on the right side. She counted the doors quietly in her head—221, 223, 225...

There, fifth door down on the right. She stared at it, inhaled deeply, and let it out slowly. The words that flowed through her mind were harsh, feeble attempts to pull her back towards despair. She feared what she would find on the other side of his door.

Since Gendry had told the doctor that there was no next of kin to contact, though Sandor’s girlfriend would be coming to the hospital to see him, the doctor had told him the basics of the situation. 

Sandor was brought in with acute alcohol poisoning, and already had a breathing tube inserted while he was unconscious. They said there was no way to know how bad it would be, but that he’d had an enormous amount of alcohol, so they were caught in a wait and see situation.

A sob caught in her throat, remembering as Arya relayed this all to her while they drove to where Gendry was waiting for them at the hospital. 

Then Sansa let out a strangled cry as a hand landed softly on her shoulder.

Sansa turned quickly, only to see the same nurse's kind face looking up at her. She was small, petite even, with soulful, dark brown eyes that made Sansa want to weep.

"Are you okay, honey?" Sansa would have laughed at the woman calling her that, any other time perhaps, because they appeared to be of similar age.

But right now, the woman in front of her was a bridge to that room and to the man who was lying on the bed inside, so she shook her head. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she whispered her question.

"Is he going to die?"

The woman—Sarah, her nametag read—shook her head, though she said, "We don't know. But it doesn't hurt to have the people who love him close by." Then she prompted Sansa with a gentle hand on her shoulder to follow her down to the room.

It was like walking through the ocean surf—at times easy, at times other forces working against her steps. But she made it, and she watched as the nurse knocked, almost inaudibly, on the metal trim beside the open door.

A raspy man's voice came through the curtain and for a heartbeat Sansa thought it was Sandor. But then her brain registered that the timbre was different, that this voice was even more earthy and broken than Sandor's, with a slight accent that she was unable to place.

"Come in, he's decent."

A joke. Sansa was sure her mouth would hang open forever at the audacity of someone making a joke while Sandor was laying in that room, unconscious. 

Then Sarah turned to her and gave a gently encouraging smile before preceding Sansa into the room.


	15. April 4, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've posted from my phone. But that's what you do when you have three kids in the backseat on tablets, while waiting for the hubby outside the clinic :-/ (Darn respiratory infection)
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter! We're plugging along, slowly moving towards the conclusion y'all are yearning for <3
> 
> Also, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for 444 Kudos! Aaaaaaa, my cup overflows <3

The nurse pulled back the curtain just a bit before announcing in a soft, hospital voice to the person already in the room, "I’ve brought the second visitor." Then she disappeared behind the curtain, and Sansa froze, rooted to the spot just inside the door of the room.

Her senses were assailed with evidence of Sandor's incapacitation—the smell of clean, sterile hospital equipment, the light blues and grays of the curtain and the wallpaper, the sound of the clipped beeps of machines and sensors. She faced the curtain like it was an adversary, and she felt desperate to watch him open his eyes and smile at her.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, wiped away the remains of tears that had slid down her cheeks, and stepped into the room.

The first thing she saw was the strange man sitting in a chair at the bedside, just opposite her, separated by Sandor's large, unmoving, blanket-covered feet. He looked up at her when she came into view and held her gaze, measuring her up as much as she did him.

He was older, with more gray hair than black, but it was a thick head of hair her father would envy. He had a large, hooked nose, and striking features for an older man. Greek, or something, she thought. No, Italian? She couldn't tell, and her erratic thoughts were brought back to the present by Sarah's movements on the other side of the curtain.

Sansa let her eyes leave the older man as she rounded the edge of the curtain from where it hung from the ceiling, and she turned at the foot of the bed to look on Sandor.

Immediately the tears overflowed and poured down her face.

Sandor wasn't moving, and had all sorts of lights and monitors surrounding him. There was a tube down his throat, taped to his face and hanging off to the side where a machine was breathing for him. He had IVs in both arms, and he was wearing a horrible blue hospital gown with an ugly, circular yellow pattern.

His hands lay at his sides on top of the blanket, limp but still big, still strong-looking, and she wanted to go hold one of them, as she had done so often over the last couple of months. Though she didn't want it to be the simple hold of friends—she wanted to grasp his fingers, feel the pads of them, rub her palms over the dusting of hair on his knuckles, press the back of his hand to her cheek and kiss the soft skin there.

But again, she was frozen--in shock at seeing him like this, and pain--as feelings of culpability crept up through her body and wrapped around her heart like crooked fingers. 

Sarah finished her check of him and stood back as the automatic blood pressure cuff inflated around his right arm, and clicked off until the reading displayed on the monitor. She took note of it in a small notebook that she slid back into the pocket of her scrubs, and she turned to Sansa.

"Feel free to stay as long as you want. We will be in periodically to check on him. Would you like anything? Coffee? Water?"

Sansa's mouth opened and closed like a trout out of water. The question had caught her off guard.

"If she wants anything, I can go get it for her." Sarah glanced over at the man who had remained quiet in his chair, and then back to Sansa before nodding and walking out of the room. Sansa looked over at him, but then back at Sandor, walking closer in halting steps until her thighs pushed up against the plastic railing beside the mattress of his bed.

He was certainly the Sandor she had seen last night, the same one she had kissed and touched, but this one was also different. This one wasn't hungry for her, or reacting to her presence in any way. He wasn't moving, and it scared her to her core.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered, more to herself than for her audience. But the audience piped up just the same.

"I don't think anyone ever plans on dying of alcohol poisoning." The sarcasm in his otherwise kind voice raised her hackles and she shot him a venomous look.

"He is not going to die." Sansa felt her heart speeding up at this man's audacity to say those words out loud.

He just snorted, a half laugh erupting from his throat as he crossed thick arms over his chest.

Sansa managed to keep the suspicion from her tone. "Who are you?"

The man looked at her from under bushy, graying eyebrows. He assessed her, from head to toe and back again, before tilting his head up to look down his nose at her. "A friend," was all he said, and he waited for her response.

"Yes, well..." Sansa was flustered, that someone would be in here claiming to be Sandor's friend. She had assumed Sandor didn’t have any friends other than Gendry. "He never told me about any friends." She tried for haughty but her words just came out sad. 

The man let out a short bark of laughter before saying, "Sandor always does stick to the rules of confidentiality." The man shook his head, smiling widely as though Sansa had just told him a funny joke. Then he sighed heavily, mirroring the ones she'd been doing all night. He looked over at Sandor's face and Sansa was surprised to see genuine sadness on it. She had a flicker of a thought—perhaps she had misjudged this man.

"I suppose it doesn't quite matter right now," he continued, his voice deep and gravelly, an older version of Sandor's. "My name is EB. I'm Sandor's recovery coach, accountability partner, friend—whatever you want to call me. I met him in my recovery group." The man—EB—looked up at her again, and then appeared to remember himself, as he suddenly stood, as though finally recalled his manners.

"My apologies, miss, my apologies. Here--" and he walked over to the only other chair in the room and dragged it over to where she was standing on the other side of the bed. He pushed it until he slowed just behind her legs, and she slowly lowered herself into the chair as he rounded the bed and sat again in the chair he had been occupying.

"Thank you," she said softly. Then, because she couldn't bear the silence and the beeping of machines, she added, "Sandor told me he was in recovery. We have been dating."

The man's eyebrows rose but that smile returned, broader this time as he nodded, almost comical in his movements.

"Sansa," was what he said, nodding some more before shaking his head and chuckling. How could a man laugh at a time like this?!

"Yes," she said, her tone clipped and slightly confused.

"I was wondering if I was going to ever meet you." He looked from Sandor to her, then said, "Sandor speaks about you quite a bit."

Sansa didn't know what to say. "At group?"

"No," said EB. "Not at group. We do private sessions, usually after group has ended." He turned to look back at Sandor, and he sighed.

Sansa turned as well, looking at the tube coming out of Sandor's mouth. The breathing machine whistled with every inhale and shuddered a tiny bit with every exhale. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she leaned on the railing and reached out to take his hand, careful not to disturb the IV taped on the back of it. His hand was warm, which belied his current unconscious state. She gripped his fingers, willing him to open his eyes and look at her.

"You've done a great deal for him, this last year," EB was saying kindly. Sansa glanced up at him and realized the man showed more fondness for Sandor than what he let on. He was looking at the younger man with a sheen of tears in his eyes. "He's come so far, hadn't even thought of drinking for months, until tonight." He paused and sighed heavily. "Do you know what happened? Why he would have done something like this?"

He asked, but something in his voice told her he already knew she had something to do with it. Gendry. Gendry had been here. What had he told EB?

Sansa turned back to Sandor, the lack of motion in his hand, the lack of response, a glaring reminder of the consequences of their choices, combined and separate.

She had no words with which to answer EB. She couldn’t condense what had happened enough to form a proper reply, so she just nodded her head, looking at Sandor’s peaceful face.

The feelings of guilt arose again--it had been her fault, this was her fault. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could wipe it away. She looked, and knew that EB had seen. He smiled at her. The man was full of smiles.

But what he said next made her mouth fall open. 

“He loves you, you know.” 

EB wasn’t looking at her anymore, but at Sandor, with an expression on his face that said he was perhaps remembering something. He smiled to himself, and Sansa watched the emotions play over his face as he spoke.

“He never told me so, but you can tell, just by how he speaks. He told me of the first few times you texted and of how much of an ass he was.” EB’s laugh was merely a chuckle, a shake of his head as he continued. 

“He told me about having to apologize. I helped him through that, coached him a bit. And he came back the next week and told me he had done it, and that you’d responded.”

His voice faded as he looked down at his hands, his thoughts miles away. She watched as he reined them in, taking a shaky breath. 

“Your conversations have helped him more than you know. They brought him back to the land of the living, where he was speaking to a woman on good terms.” 

EB looked at her now, a sly but friendly smile on his face. 

“He said you exchanged pictures on Halloween--showed me yours.” Sansa blushed, wondering exactly how much Sandor told this man.

“To find out,” he went on, “that you were not only nice, but beautiful?” 

He closed his eyes, the shake of his head almost imperceptible, and when he opened them again he was looking at Sandor. 

“He had trouble believing it was true. But the guys and I from the group helped him, encouraged him, until you and he were talking on a regular basis. And then, when he started to talk less about you, kept more of your interactions private and to himself, I knew he had started to have feelings for you.”

He was making Sansa uncomfortable, though not in an embarrassing sort of way. She was thinking about how her feelings for Sandor had started to grow as well, and how it had started before she’d even spoken with him on the phone. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to admit it, but it was true.

“Why would he tell you all of that?” she asked now, stroking the back of Sandor’s knuckles with her thumb. She yearned for him to react, to squeeze her hand, to wiggle his fingers, to twitch--anything. 

EB shrugged from where he now slouched in his chair.

“I think, without realizing it, that Sandor has started to see me as a sort of… father figure… I suppose.” The man lifted his chin, scrunching up the lower part of his face as he pondered his own words. “And I welcomed it, to be honest. I never had any children of my own, and there’s just something about Sandor that--that--”

“Grows on you,” she supplied, and he smiled as he nodded.

“Yes, exactly. So when Gendry called me and told me what had happened, there was no way I wasn’t coming to be here for him.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. 

Sansa thought on what EB had said, and she was happy that for a while Sandor was able to lean on the older man, to rely on him for emotional support in the way a good father would have done. 

She leaned forward and rested her chin on the hand that gripped the top of the railing, watching Sandor’s chest rise and fall with the wheezing and shuddering of the breathing machine. His hair was strewn over the pillow behind him, clumped in areas that, she realized with sadness, was likely vomit.

EB sat quietly slouched in his chair, one hand on his knee, his other elbow propped up on the wooden armrest of his chair with his cheek leaning on his closed fist. He looked tired, though unwilling to leave Sandor’s side. So when he spoke, Sansa felt even more convicted of her failings.

“I wondered what triggered his relapse, Sansa,” EB said almost gingerly, as though he knew it was a sore subject, and likely involved her. There was no condemnation in his voice--only in her heart. 

She sighed, but when she closed her eyes, the tears that pooled there at his words spilled over, dropping onto the white hospital blanket and leaving two dark spots next to Sandor’s arm.

First she asked, “Did he say anything, when you got to him?” She swallowed, blinking again slowly as she lifted her head to wipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

EB shook his head sadly, “He had sent me a text. Said he’d fucked up, pardon my language.” She glanced at him, and he smiled slightly, “His words.” 

Sansa winced. So he hadn’t said anything about being angry with her. Sandor thought he had messed up, when in reality… Sansa’s tears started back as she remembered the moment he entered her. While he was moving inside her they had both been in the moment one hundred percent. There had been nothing to stand in her way of getting as close to him as humanly possible, and she was sure he had felt the same. So no, she of course could not blame him--in any capacity--for her current feelings, or the way she had felt just moments after they were finished, when the enormity of what they were doing crashed through her mind.

But after--when she had left the room, had barely spoken to him… Oh god, he must have thought he’d done something wrong, she thought now. And that his last text was that he’d fucked up, before drinking himself unconscious… Sansa felt bile rise up in the back of her throat. 

The same thoughts came unbidden again, you did this, you did this, you did this. The machines, the beeping, the alcohol. 

She breathed in through her nose and closed her eyes, slowly letting out the breath as though doing so would release some of the negative emotions threatening to overthrow her sanity.

“He was unconscious when you found him?”

EB nodded. “Unconscious,” he confirmed, “And he was covered in whiskey and vomit. They think he was having a seizure. When I got there, Gendry had already put a belt in his mouth, and I helped tip him on his side. We didn’t know what to do--I’ve seen addiction, but I have never seen a person in the thick of severe alcohol poisoning. So when we couldn't get a response from him, we called 911.” The man shivered and Sansa thought she might have felt the same coldness sweep through the room at EB’s words.

“But why? Why would he have turned to alcohol, after working on his sobriety all this time?” Sansa wanted answers but even as she asked, she knew it was likely EB didn’t have any.

The man answered anyway, “Sandor used alcohol to mask his disappointment at how the world treated him. He would say this in group, and,” he raised an eyebrow at her, “I feel comfortable telling you this, breaking confidentiality, due to the present circumstances.” 

They both looked at Sandor’s face before EB went on.

“Whatever went on between you just before he drove to the store and bought the whiskey, must have been bad enough that he wanted to immediately drown all memory of it. I don’t gather that Sandor is the type to drink that much unless that was his intended purpose.” EB sounded sad, though he relayed his opinions in a matter-of-fact tone. 

Sansa voiced her question out loud, despite not being sure if she wanted to know the answer. 

“How much did he drink?”

EB’s hands came up to wipe at his tanned, wrinkled, tired face. He must not have been sixty yet, but right now he looked like an an old man. 

“We found two bottles--one empty, one tipped over on the floor a quarter full, but we don't know how much he actually drank. He must have been drinking on his way back to his cabin. His truck was parked badly, almost hitting the garage door when I arrived. Sandor would never be so careless.”

He paused, and Sansa said no more. There was nothing left to say, and they both remained silent as Sarah came back in, checked Sandor’s vitals again, and said that shift change was coming up. When she left, EB waited until the door was pulled shut before his eyes moved to Sansa, his body remaining in the same slouched position. 

“May I ask you two things?” 

Sansa nodded, though right after, she wondered if she would answer.

“What did you and Sandor argue about?”

Ah, she had known someone would ask her that. She hadn’t expected it to be EB--hadn’t even known the man a couple hours ago--but he was here now. Should she tell him? She glanced at Sandor. Did it matter? Would Sandor tell EB? Would Sandor mind if he knew? It was embarrassing enough, but she needed to remind herself that Sandor was here, and that he wasn’t dead. Yet. 

“We didn’t really argue. We were… intimate,” she said haltingly. 

EB raised an eyebrow, and merely said, “Mm-hm?”

Sansa looked back at Sandor’s face, unable to look EB in the eyes as the words quietly poured from her mouth, “I had never done it before, but we--I, was so caught up in the moment that--I don’t know, I guess as soon as it was over I thought I had made a huge mistake. I wished we hadn't gone through with it. But it was too late, it was done.” She forced herself to not close her eyes to Sandor, as well, achingly aware that she both wished he was awake to hear this, and horrified that he would have to find out if he ever woke up--when, she reminded herself. When he woke up.

“I was upset,” she said plaintively, as though that explained everything. But she knew it didn’t. “I was upset and I really wouldn’t answer him when he asked me to stop, to turn around and speak to him. I dressed in the bathroom, picked up my things and left.” 

“Upset?” EB prompted, and Sansa knew now why EB inspired such confidence that Sandor had come to like the older gentleman. His voice, even repeating the single word to her, spoke volumes, and encouraged her to open up to him. She almost smiled as she thought, no wonder he leads men’s addiction recovery groups.

“Like I said, it was my first time. I guess I’d had expectations, and I suddenly thought... I felt… immature, and inexperienced. I had let it go too far--”

“So did he,” EB reminded her.

“Yes, I do know we’re both to blame, but… I don’t know, EB. I just really don’t know. All I know is that I have never in my life felt so upset as I did in the moments following… that.”

“I see,” said EB, though Sansa wasn’t sure if he really did. It was a bad explanation, she knew, but it was all she had. He gave the air in the room a moment to rest before asking, “Why are you here?”

Sansa looked at him then, wondering at such an odd question. “Despite what happened, I still care deeply for him.”

“Love?” EB eyed her with a single raised eyebrow.

Sansa was so taken aback by the word that she resorted to humor to cover her discomfort.

“That’s a third question,” she said, smiling lightly as she turned her gaze to EB, whose face belied his curiosity. He loved Sandor, she was sure of it now. He may have said Sandor looked at him as a father figure, but she decided there must be more to Sandor than just growing on EB--more than just seeing him as a younger man he could support and encourage. EB had said it himself, he never had kids of his own. Perhaps Sandor was more important to EB than either of them had realized, and EB had only realized it when he’d found Sandor unconscious.

Sansa could relate--she now knew her feelings for Sandor ran much deeper than she had thought.

She turned back to the man lying prone on the hospital bed, and thought on what EB had suggested. He was giving her time to think about it, she knew, with his silence, and she took advantage of it.

She stood, but bent over the railing to lean on it, bringing her face to hover over Sandor’s. 

Did she love him? She looked at his black eyelashes, laying still above his cheeks. His hair was pulled back from his face, exposing his scars to the harsh light of the fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. Even up close, they still didn’t look as bad as what he must have thought them to be. She reached out now to stroke them with her fingertips, letting them drift down past the tape from his breathing tube to the area of his muscled neck that bore the angry scars. She pulled her hand back towards her as her other hand reached out to trace the bearded cheek on his other side, trailing it over the edge of his mouth where his lips were parted, propped open by the intrusion of the machine that was keeping his lungs full of oxygen.

“Yes,” she whispered, as her thick braid tumbled over her shoulder and onto his chest. She let her hand drift down to feel the warmth of his chest, right over his heart. She could feel the same strong, steady beat under her hand, the same beat she had heard all those times they’d cuddled on the couch to watch Antiques Roadshow, or some movie or another. It was there, and it was strong, and she knew she would do anything to make him well again so that she could tell him, “I do love him.”

EB sighed heavily, though when Sansa glanced at him he just smiled at her. She blinked, and then stood straight, hand still resting on Sandor’s hospital gown.

“But you knew that already,” she said, and EB’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t deny it.

“Why don’t I go get us some coffee, and when I come back we’ll figure out how to fix this thing that you and Sandor have going on. Deal?”

Sansa glanced back at Sandor, a tiny sense of peace fluttering down over her heart for the first time in almost three hours. Then she nodded back at EB, who was standing beside the bed. A smile was her answer.


	16. April 7, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there, guys! 
> 
> Ahhhh, life, life, life. Always getting in the way.
> 
> I hope you enjoy - this chapter is lots of talking, but I felt it's talking that needed to happen. <3

Sansa and EB celebrated Sandor’s birthday together in the hospital room, sharing a piece of cake while they spoke of some of their experiences with the man who was still lying on the bed, unconscious.

They decided to take shifts, starting when Sansa went back to work after taking a couple days off. She was getting back to what could never again be a normal life, but she needed her job. She felt the absence of Sandor acutely, and ached for his presence daily. But having a semblance of routine again gave her some peace of mind.

She slept at the hospital every night in his recovery room, in a pulled-out arm chair that felt like sleeping on a pile of overstuffed suitcases. But in the morning EB arrived, relieving her of her vigil, sharing details of how Sandor’s night had gone, that nothing had changed in his status. Sansa had taken to giving EB a hug, which he returned, the older man feeling almost as much like a father to her and Sandor, as what her own father felt to her.

Sandor himself was no better than what he’d been three days ago, though the doctors still insisted they were just waiting for him to wake up. 

Sansa and EB left the room when the nurses came in the one time to wash Sandor, and any time they needed to do anything that would leave him indecent. During those times Sansa and EB roamed the halls for a half hour before stopping at the ICU door to be let back in. Sometimes Sansa would stop at an alcove and exchange her old magazines for newer ones.

It was on one of these outings from the room when she had arranged to meet her mom in the hallway waiting area, letting her whole family know that the man in ICU was intensely private, and may not want visitors he didn’t know.

Catelyn had been shocked to find out Sansa was spending all her time in the hospital, but she was no more shocked to find out Sansa had kept the relationship from her for months.

“Sansa, you are sitting in a hospital day-in and day-out, at the bedside of a man who I have not even met. What do you expect your father and I to think?” Catelyn’s eyes were wide with indignation, and Sansa knew she was irritated. But it was high time her family knew something about her.

“I share everything with you guys,” she said, and it was true. Her job, her social life, her apartment--all had an open-door policy attached to them, pinned to the outside with her love for them. But this was new to her, this love she felt for Sandor--new and unrequited at the moment--and she hadn’t been sure enough in what she had with Sandor, sure enough in its continuity, to share it with her family. She said as much to her mother now, and Catelyn looked away, a huff of breath her only response.

“Mom,” Sansa said, reaching out to touch the older woman’s arm. 

Warm, sad blue eyes looked back at her, and she noted that her mother was beginning to get the vertical creases on her upper lip. Catelyn Stark, who had always prided herself on her youthful appearance and good skin, was showing signs of aging. Now was not the time to placate her with empty words and assurances. Now was the time to be honest with her.

And so she began at the beginning, telling Catelyn of the wrong number text she had sent, Sandor’s reply, and his openness to discuss his road to sobriety. She spoke of how sweet it had been when he’d texted her with his Halloween dilemma, how sobering it had been to see his scars, and how kind and considerate a friend he had turned out to be. 

She did leave out any and all physical descriptions of what they had, but even Sansa had to admit that what she and Sandor had, indeed developed into a relationship. She had even gotten used to nodding whenever staff at the hospital referred to her as Sandor’s girlfriend.

“And this?” Her mother waved her hand towards the end of the hallway that led to the ICU doors. “Was this a stepping stone on his way to sobriety?” Her tone left no room for argument, so Sansa closed her eyes for a moment before shouldering past her mother’s sass.

“We had had an misunderstanding, Mom. A bad one, though looking back I can see how I never should have let it come between us…” She heard the words as she said them and paused, once again realizing the implications of what she’d said. 

The painful first time sexual experience, her shutdown-reaction that followed, his pleas for her to talk to him, and the emotions that had bowled her over once she’d arrived home…

It all meant nothing in the light of what had happened afterwards. In the light of Sandor’s current condition. In the light of her love for him.

“Mom,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared at the checkered pattern of tile just beyond her feet. 

“...Mom, I… I love him.” 

Why was it so hard to tell her parent that? Her head turned to look at Catelyn’s face, which read shock, her mouth dropped open. Sansa sniffed, her eyebrows raised, and she looked back at the tile, though this time she didn’t see any of it. She was done fighting herself on this.

“I love him, Mom,” she said again, more assured this time, for her mom’s benefit. Though accepting that--verbally now, as she hadn’t done before in EB’s presence when they’d spoken about it--suddenly brought down the weight of everything that was happening around her and she began to cry. 

In a moment her mother had risen and was standing in front of her, holding Sansa’s head to her belly as the tears flowed, and Sansa wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, pouring it all out onto Catelyn’s clothes as she had done when she was a little girl. 

Then, to her surprise, Catelyn kneeled down in front of Sansa when her tears had been reduced to mere hiccups.

“Tell me, Sansa,” she said softly, “Have you ever loved a man before?”

Sansa honestly shook her head, wiping her nose with one of those thin, hospital tissues her mom handed her, that felt more like thin newspaper than tissue. 

“No,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

Catelyn rested her hand against Sansa’s cheek, and Sansa leaned into it and closed her eyes, having not known how much she needed this kind of comfort.

“May I sit with you, for a time? In his room?”

Again, Sansa hadn’t known how welcome an offer like that would seem. She nodded, and together they walked hand in hand, back to the ICU doors.

That had been yesterday, and Catelyn was due again to come today, having assumed the position of dual sentinel for Sansa’s sake. Sansa sat now in the blue chair beside Sandor’s bed, looking at him and remembering her mother’s first impression of him.

“Good heavens,” Catelyn had said, and then she’d covered her mouth with her hand and looked apologetically at Sansa. “I’m sorry, sweetie. He’s just so… big.”

Sansa had smiled in return, saying, “I know, Mom. But so is his heart.” And because this was her mom, she gave the short version of Sandor’s isolation, the scars, and how they had met. 

Catelyn had been outraged that a man like Warren would be so immature as to give Sansa a wrong number, but as Sansa spoke about Sandor, her mother admitted that perhaps it was for the best.

This time in the afternoon, when EB had already left for his evening groups and before her mother arrived, was her first alone time with Sandor that wasn’t nighttime. She didn’t mind the quiet, but it was discouraging for her to be in the room with him, knowing that there was no change in his condition. She would sit in her chair and stare at him, or look out the window, or read magazines, or type on her computer. She had to find things to do with her time, or she felt she would fall into despair.

She was sitting next to Sandor’s bed today, close enough to hold his hand, with her cheek resting on her drawn up knee when there was a quiet knock at the door. Sansa glanced at Sandor, sometimes feeling silly for expecting some sort of reaction out of him at the slightest provocation. Of course, there was no reaction, so she stood to see who was waiting to come into the room.

It was Arya, who was waving at Gendry as he walked back down the hallway. He gave a small wave to Sansa when she looked out the door, but then disappeared around the corner.

“I asked him to go get us some coffee,” said her sister. Arya looked up at Sansa, a timid smile on her small face.

“That was thoughtful of you, thank you. Come in, please,” said Sansa.    


Arya sat in EB’s chair on the other side of the bed and Sansa took up the spot she’d been in, beside his chest, though with Arya in the room she felt awkward and didn’t reach out to take his hand.

“How is he doing?” Arya asked. They had kept in touch through text messages and phone calls, but because there was no change and because Gendry of all people knew exactly how private Sandor was, they stayed away. But Sansa appreciated her asking, all the same.

“No worse, no better.” She drew her braid over her shoulder and toyed with the ends while she looked at his face. His color was sallow, with dark circles under his eyes. The breathing machine whirred beside her head.

“And you?” Sansa’s eyebrows went up at Arya’s question. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. How are  _ you _ doing?” Arya sent a gentle smile in her direction. “A few days ago I would never have expected you to be sitting here, keeping vigil over him.” She shrugged. “You were so upset--”

“Yes, I know, I know,” interrupted Sansa, not wanting to hear again about how she had acted. “But I’m here now, and I’m here to stay.” 

Arya looked like she wanted to say something, but she closed her mouth before anything came out.

Sansa went on, “Things have changed. I’ve been talking to EB, and a few times with Mom, and I guess I’ve… sorted things out. Worked out my feelings. Not quite over what happened between he and I, but I’m hoping he’ll wake up so we can do that together.” That was the crux of the matter--that they work it out together. They needed a good, long talk.

She pulled both knees up and crossed her arms on top, hands dangling down the sides of her legs. She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly.

“You sorted things out?” Arya prompted, sounding genuinely courteous. Sansa darted a glance at her sister’s face, seeing nothing but compassion--no animosity or skepticism--before bringing them back to Sandor. She nodded.

“What he and I have… It’s good. It was short, and awkward at times,” she smiled, remembering that first dinner they’d had at her apartment. “But I think we have something good and real. Something that will last a long time.” Tears welled up in her eyes, ever-present wonderings of whether she’ll ever get a chance to tell him that, creeping around the edges of her mind. 

“It’s just hard, you know? Seeing him like this.” She sniffed, and wiped away a tear that had escaped to her cheek.

“EB says I shouldn’t feel guilty, that it was Sandor’s choice to drink, but I do. I feel the guilt, like it’s going to eat away at me bit by bit until he wakes up and I can make amends, until he wakes up and I can say I’m sorry,” she sniffed, but the tears were coming now, “Until he wakes up and I can tell him how much I love him.” She watched as his face did  _ nothing _ , and she dropped her forehead to her knees. “I can’t believe I--I didn’t realize it before.” 

As she began to cry in earnest, she didn’t hear Arya rise and make her way to that side of the bed, nor even know she was there until her sister’s small, soft hand rested on her shoulder.

“This sucks--Arya,” she said, hiccupping between words. She took a deep, shuddering breath, which did nothing to calm her sobs. “This--This sucks so bad--I miss him.” Her hiccups made it too hard to talk so she gave up, crying as Arya rubbed the back of her shoulders, gently shushing her like someone would do for a baby. And Sansa sometimes felt like one--with all the crying she had done over Sandor’s motionless body since the night they had brought him into the hospital.

But it was later, about the time that Catelyn was supposed to arrive, when Arya brought up the night, almost a week ago, when Sandor and Sansa had been intimate. 

“Have you thought about it?” Arya looked at her, again with that curious, non-judgmental look on her face. Sansa didn't know what she would have done if her sister had sneered or looked down her nose as her. Probably crawl into a shell and never say anything private to her again.

But now, her and Arya were drawing closer, she could feel it. And she liked it. She liked having someone else to confide in besides Margaery and Daenerys, who up until she had turned them down for a Friday night club-hopping excursion, hadn’t known anything about Sandor.

When Sansa didn't answer right away, Arya continued with a shrug, “‘Cause, you know, it will happen again… When he wakes up, I mean.” Sansa looked up at her little sister, startled, and watched as Arya tucked a short clump of brown hair behind her ear. Truth be told, she  _ hadn’t  _ thought about that.

“Whoa,” said Arya, a slight smirk on her face as she leaned back in her chair. She wrinkled her nose as though she’d just smelled something awful. “A little less  _ deer in the headlights _ , okay?”

Sansa chuckled, embarrassed that Arya had seen right through her. But then Arya relaxed and smiled, teasingly.

“It’s not that bad, you know… Once you’ve done it a couple times.”

Sansa was mortified that her younger sister was reassuring her about sex. But then, she  _ had _ spilled her guts to Arya, so Arya did know everything about why she and Sandor had a falling out. But still, she had trouble pushing away thoughts of how much it had hurt, and of how she'd felt after, wishing she had stopped it before they'd gone so far. 

She loved Sandor, she really did. But she was having a hard time reconciling that love with the pain of the act, the disappointment and embarrassment over how she lost her virginity; her very identity; and the shame that came with thoughts of how she had acted afterwards, and what her actions had led Sandor to do. Compounding her guilt was the nagging realization that he would not be where he was if she hadn’t acted the way she had.

And now Arya was asking her to look beyond the pain and the fear and the shame, to  _ repeating it?! _ No, she was completely unable to consider that right now. Not even in the abstract sense normally reserved for physical expressions of love and flowers and sunsets. 

“Right now… I just can’t fathom wanting to do it again, Arya. Honestly.” She said the last word quietly, slightly afraid that part of her would jump out and yell that she was a liar, the part of her that loved Sandor and would do anything for him. 

Arya seemed to think on her words--she looked away, staring at the wallpaper or the nurse’s whiteboard for a moment before watching herself pick at her fingernails. Sansa thought she looked introspective, but when Arya spoke Sansa decided maybe it had been a weighing of words in Arya’s mind.

“Something you may not know about me,” Arya said quietly, still looking intently at her fingernails, “is that Gendry was my second.” She looked up from under shaggy brown bangs, and Sansa knew immediately what she was saying. Shocked, Sansa dropped her feet to the floor and leaned forward.

“What?!” She fairly hissed the word. Her braid swung like a pendulum beneath her shoulders, the only part of her that was in motion.  _ This _ was news.

Arya looked back down, her expression going from anticipation of her revelation to contrite at Sansa’s word. 

“You mean to tell me that our parents think you’re some kind of hussy who likes to sleep around, and you’ve only ever been with two men?!”

Arya chuckled, leading Sansa to the conclusion that her little sister was more mysterious than her parents, her brothers, and she had ever thought. 

“Yeah,” said Arya, shyly. She moved to picking at a few threads coming out of her old Army jacket sleeve. “That guy I told you about really did a number on me.”

“The one who you… you know… and then he left?”

“That’s the one.” Arya’s tone was blithe, matter-of-fact, but Sansa could hear the pain underneath. “He was a jerk… So I dated a lot of guys, had lots of them meet Mom and Dad, but I never slept with any of them. Mom and Dad just… assumed, I guess.”

“Geez, Arya. We  _ all _ assumed.” Then, because the truth of what she’d said struck her like a baseball bat, she said emphatically, “I’m so  _ sorry _ , Arya!” Arya looked up then, that youthful, cheery smile back in place. She shook her head at Sansa and laughed.

“It’s okay, really. I led you guys to believe that. But seriously?” She leaned forward, mirroring Sansa’s pose with her elbows on her knees so that they were looking at each other over Sandor’s blanket-covered shins. “I met Gendry.” The look she gave Sansa when she said those words was one of total and utter salaciousness--so much so that Sansa laughed so loudly, she had to clap a hand over her mouth to not to let it get too loud. 

_ This _ . This is the way sisters were supposed to talk. Love bloomed in her chest for her sister just then.

Sansa sobered enough to ask, “Did Gendry know about the other guy?”

Arya looked at her like she had sprouted a second nose. “Of course, dummy,” she said, though there was no real ire behind it. “I’m of a mind that you must be completely honest with someone before entering into a relationship with them.” She raised an eyebrow in Sansa’s direction. “Were  _ you _ completely honest with Sandor?”

The question made Sansa pause, though she thought back to the few minutes before…  _ before _ . She had to smile at what she found buried, deep in her memories of the evening.

“There wasn’t--” She had to think about this, how to word that it never crossed her mind to stop what they were doing--the grinding into him, the hands roaming her body, the  _ kissing _ \--to talk about what was happening.

She smiled when the right words came from Arya’s mouth--”You were too busy using your tongues for other things?”

They both dissolved into the quietest bout of giggling Sansa had ever heard, and Sansa felt more light-hearted than she had in more than a week. She sunk low in her chair and leaned her head against the low back, bumping her legs underneath Sandor’s bed. Arya slouched as well, though she laughed with her whole face palmed by her own hand, her elbow resting on the wooden armrest. 

“But seriously,” she said, lifting a couple fingers to peer out at Sansa from under her hand, which now rested against her forehead. “It gets better.”

Sansa’s laughter petered out, and she let her eyes slide over to Sandor, who himself lay sentinel to his own hospital room. Such a strong, virile man, reduced to an invalid. Just another thing she couldn’t reconcile.

“Better, huh?” 

“Mm hmm,” Arya murmured, gently. “That first time… If it’s not done right, it’s horrible.” 

Sansa looked over, her braid sliding against her chest where it lay. “What do you mean?” She wracked her brain but, blushing now at the thought, she decided she hadn’t done anything  _ wrong _ with Sandor. On the contrary--everything they did together that night had felt incredibly right… except the follow-through at the end.

But the  _ rest of it... _ Sansa looked back at Sandor, and pictures appeared in her mind, images of them that night, as though her memories were snapshots instead of videos. Sandor’s hands on the backs of her thighs, his mouth on her breasts, her hands in his hair, her legs straddling his lap, clothes being torn off, discarded as though they were offensive. If anything, she decided they had operated in a manner that was textbook  _ bodice ripper _ .

“I mean,” Arya was saying, “that if both people are one hundred percent willing, open, and the act is consensual, I’ve heard it can be fairly easy. You just have to… be prepared.”

“Prepared?” God, what an awful conversation. But Sansa was determined to have it. If there was a chance--she could blink heavily and think about the possibility now--that it would happen again between her and Sandor, she knew she should absorb whatever advice her sister had to give.

But Arya looked away, and Sansa realized she was blushing. Schooling her face to not let on that she knew her little sister was embarrassed at the topic, she prompted, “Prepared how?” Though at her own words, she felt like looking away, herself.

“You know,” Arya said, obviously bashfully willing her sister to understand. “Being turned on?... By the man?”

Sansa must have given such a blank look that Arya groaned loudly.

“Wet, Sansa, geez. The woman has to be  _ wet _ .” Her sister threw up her hands and fell backwards heavily against her chair, as though actually saying that word had taken all the energy she had.

Sansa blushed, now realizing what Arya meant. And of course, she had felt that way before,  _ wet _ , when she had been turned on. She hadn’t paid much attention to her body the day she and Sandor had sex on his bed, but she was certain that, had she taken the time to notice, she had most likely been  _ very _ wet. She looked away from Arya, as though her sister would be able to read her thoughts by looking into her eyes. 

“So,” Arya continued, “When you and Sandor do that again, just know to be prepared. And talk--for crying out loud, talk before you do it. Get out your expectations, make them known.

“Did you do that? With Gendry?” Sansa looked over at Arya now, waiting for the answer. 

Again, Arya’s eyes glazed over at the topic of Gendry. She smiled, looking down at the floor in front of her boots.

“Sort of. I mean, he knew about my first time and all, but he really wasn’t that experienced, either. So when it did happen, we just learned together. And now--” She broke off what she was going to say, but Sansa wasn’t going to let her drop the subject.

“Now?”

Arya glanced up, a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Now I can’t imagine  _ not _ doing it.” She tucked her hair back again and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “It’s uh-mazing, Sansa. Like, I know I’m younger than you and all, but when you figure out how amazing it can be, you’ll look back at all this shit that’s going on and you’ll wonder why the hell you ever let it go so bad.”

They both sat in silence for a while, Sansa mulling over Arya’s words. When Catelyn came in and Arya left, Sansa sat with her mom in mostly silence, wondering about what the future held for her, for Sandor, and for them together.


	17. April 8, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby chapter, but I love Ned <3
> 
> And can I just say, I love you guys? You're awesome. This community on AO3 and all you fellow Sansan lovers have been so welcoming, supporting, and encouraging. I'm drowning in my own appreciation for you <3

The next day Sansa was at work when she got the call from EB they had been waiting for. 

Sandor was waking up.

In a matter of minutes she was calling to her coworkers over the din of children that she wasn’t sure when she would be back and to call her if it was an emergency. Then she was out the door, jumping into her car, and racing to the hospital.

When Sansa got to the hospital, Gendry was pulling up at the same time.  Together they ran into the hospital and rushed up Sandor’s room on the third floor.

EB was there, having taken over for Sansa that morning before she’d run home for a shower and a change of clothes before work. She went up to him first, bypassing the nurses who were talking and fiddling with things up towards Sandor’s head.

Sandor wasn’t moving, and Sansa was confused, but Gendry spoke first

“I thought he was waking up,” he said, perplexed. Sansa nodded, looking from EB to Sandor, and back to EB.

“He is,” the older man assured them both, “But it’s a slow process. The doctor came in and said it might be minutes, or it might be hours before Sandor really starts to gain full consciousness.” 

EB smiled and took Sansa’s hand, looking her in the eye as he said, “The doctor says the tests are coming back with good signs, that Sandor’s body is recovering from his overdose.”

Sansa couldn’t help it--tears came to her eyes and she let them fall, watching now as the nurses checked Sandor’s IV, lifted the sheet to check something underneath, and smiled at the newcomers.

One of them was Sarah, who greeted Sansa as though they were friends.

“Sansa! It’s good to see you! I see you were told the good news.” 

The petite brunette walked over to stand beside Sansa, barely as high as Sansa’s shoulder

“He’s been in and out, not really awake but becoming more conscious by the hour. I think,” she turned to Sansa, her own hopeful smile brightening her face, “that if you want to talk to him, now is a good time to start. Hearing you might be what pulls him out of that fog.” 

Sansa felt a small, cool hand squeeze her’s before Sarah walked away with the other nurse, leaving the room to put in their report of Sandor’s condition.

Sansa turned to EB and suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. Then she did the same to Gendry, who acted only slightly awkward as he returned it.

“Sansa,” EB said, clearing his throat. “I think we’ll give you some time alone, okay? It’s almost lunch.” He turned to Gendry, who appeared relaxed again now that Sansa had turned her full attention to Sandor. “Come, Gendry.” He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and guided him out of the room. Sansa heard the door click shut behind them.

Sansa stood at the foot of the bed, looking up Sandor’s large body as he remained unmoving, lying defenseless and ill on the sterile bed. Again, thoughts of him laughing at her during Antique’s Roadshow, eating across from her at her small table, and working with her to organize his horribly messy desk, came to mind. She attempted and failed to reconcile those images with what she saw now.

She was still full of anxiety over what had happened between them, and what had happened after. She struggled, every time she thought of those minutes--that small, minuscule slice of time out of their lives that had changed so much about her, and likely about him--and right now was no different. 

Knowing that he was slowly regaining consciousness, she walked to the side of the bed EB always sat on and dragged that chair behind her until she was sitting beside the bed rail, looking up at the slightly inclined pillow and Sandor’s face. 

It was the first time she had registered that he no longer had the tube hanging out of his mouth. They had taken out the breathing tube _ ; he was breathing on his own,  _ she marveled, and more tears escaped her eyes. 

It was a small miracle, that she was seeing his full face, and she laughed that she hadn’t noticed that detail before. But she could see it--that magnificent beard, his strong nose, those soft lips that looked a bit dry. 

Now was the time to put it all behind her. She knew this now. She could feel it in her bones that that knowledge had been with her since she’d received the call from EB a short while ago. 

Seeing Sandor now and knowing he was coming out of this, she just wanted to be there for him, no matter what. So she reached down with both hands over the bed rail and grasped his hand in hers, bringing it up to rest against her cheek. It was warm, large, and comforting, so she turned her face to it and pressed her lips against the back of his palm.

Then she scooted to the edge of the chair and leaned in, but she decided she still wasn’t close enough.

She stood and bent over him, and for the first time since she had first seen him in the hospital bed, she gently placed a hand on his forehead, resting it partially on his skin, partially beyond his hairline. She still grasped his hand with hers, but now she bent to speak softly into his ear.

“Sandor,” she said, her voice quiet, the two syllables coming out slowly. She held back, watching his face, feeling his hand, to see if there was any reaction.

There was none.

She tried again. She leaned down, this time pressing her lips to the unscarred temple on his left side, a soft kiss that made her lips feel like they had missed the sensation of his skin against them, despite only having had experienced it one time before.

But no, she didn’t want to think about that night. She wanted to think about doing what she could to encourage Sandor to wake up, right now.

So she pressed her cheek to the temple she had just kissed and aimed her mouth at his ear.

“Sandor,” she said again, “It’s Sansa. I…” She swallowed, feeling the warmth of him against her skin. “I miss you, and I really want you to wake up for me.” Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, feeling as though she was going to soak his hair with her tears. She rubbed his forehead with her thumb. Then she squeezed his hand before continuing, “I’ve been so worried about you. Please… Please come back to me.”

She turned her head, this way and that, sniffing as she rubbed her cheek against his temple.

Then she felt a movement in his hand, ever so slight, but enough for her to stand and watch as his fingers twitched against hers. 

“Sandor!” she breathed, a whispered exclamation as it happened a second time.

She leaned down again, this time not bothering with aiming her words at his ear as she kissed the soft skin of his cheek above the edge of his beard. “Sandor, it’s me, Sansa--please wake up, please, wake up for me. I’ve missed you so much.” 

She rested her forehead against his, then chuckled as two tears fell onto his face. She wiped them away and then brought her hand back to his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m crying on you, but you need to know how much you mean to me.”

A nurse came in just then, not Sarah, but another older nurse who had a kind, motherly look about her. She had her dyed hair in a high bun and wore black glasses with pink rhinestones on the ear pieces.

“He moved his hand!” Sansa said, unable to hold back the smile through her tears. The nurse--Debra, her name tag read--smiled back.

“That’s fantastic, honey! We’re all sure he’ll wake up soon, we just don’t know when. What were you doing when he moved his hand?

Sansa blushed, though she smiled down at Sandor anyway. “I had kissed his temple and I was touching my face to his, and talking to him.

“Well, honey, don’t let me stop you!” Debra pulled out a notebook and jotted down a few notes before adding, “You just keep doing what you were doing and soon, you’ll have your man up and ready to go home.” 

The nurse sent her a wide, warm smile before walking back out the way she came, and Sansa had to chuckle at how hopeful she now felt.

She spent the next half hour doing exactly what the nurse had told her to do--kissing his forehead, his cheek, rubbing his hair, pressing her cheek to his, and talking to him about anything and everything she could think of. She told him about her job and how she and Arya had become closer while he was asleep. She told him that her mom had been in to sit with her every night, and she wondered aloud whether he would be mad at her for that or not, being such a private person. 

All the while his fingers would randomly twitch and move, appearing to not be linked to anything specific she said. It didn’t disappoint her, though, since it was the first times he had moved in days. 

Sarah came in after a little while and recommended Sansa keep up with touching Sandor. Then, as she took note of his vitals and made sure the blood pressure cuff was placed correctly, she asked Sansa if she wanted to sit on the bed. Sansa wasn’t sure at first, but when Sarah explained that nothing bad could come of it, she helped Sansa lower the bed rail and just cautioned her to not touch the IV that was in his right arm.

When Sarah left, Sansa rested her hip on the edge of the bed. Then, after a minute she moved it closer, until her hip was resting against his. But when she was that close to him, it seemed natural to turn her body so that she could lay beside him, resting her cheek against his chest.

_ That heart _ , she thought, smiling, and feeling the fresh sheen of tears in her eyes. It beat so strongly, so surely, that it gave her faith he would come out of this. She brought a hand up to stroke his bearded chin.

“I miss you,” she told him again, “and I know this is going to sound crazy and weird but I love you and I need you to wake up so I can say I’m sorry and so we can go back to normal. I’m sorry for reacting the way I did, and for walking out on you when you probably needed me. I’m so sorry for that, Sandor, and I need you to wake up so I can apologize. I love you and you need to come back to me.”

“Sansa?” 

Sansa sat up straight and looked over towards the door at the sound of the man’s voice. 

“Daddy!” she cried, sliding gingerly off the bed to round it and walk into her father’s arms. Tears started afresh at seeing Ned after so long. 

Catelyn had said Ned was busy with work, and that hearing that Sansa had been spending time with a man who had overdosed on alcohol and was now unconscious in the hospital, hadn’t gone over well. Even Arya had mentioned their family patriarch’s disbelief that his calm, level-headed Sansa had “taken up with riff-raff.”

“Did Mom talk to you?” Strong arms pulled her closer at her whispered words, and he nodded against her hair. She felt his head turn above hers to look at Sandor on the bed.

“She did, Sansa. She did.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, which was okay because Sansa just needed to feel the strength of a hug holding her up after the emotional roller coaster that had been Sandor’s movements.

“And--” he said after a moment, pausing as she drew in a ragged breath. She had been crying on and off for almost an hour now. “And, I heard what you were saying to him just now.” 

Ned cleared his throat. Sansa smiled against his sweater, though she pulled her arms closer around his torso. It had been a long time since her father had held her so. “You love him?”

Sansa had known it was coming, if he admitted to hearing her words. Her words of love and need, to Sandor. So she nodded, but she didn’t pull back to look at him. She and her father were alike in many ways--one of them being, needing time to process something. Sansa almost laughed at her thought, knowing that over the last week she still hadn’t completely processed what was happening, what had happened. 

It was a minute before Ned spoke again, and when he did, Sansa sagged against him in relief. 

“He must be one hell of a young man, then.” 

She did lean back to look at him then, her smile bright and her heart soaring. 

“He is, Daddy, though… He’s not really young.”

Ned’s eyebrow rose at that, and he glanced at Sandor, and the back at Sansa. “No?”

Sansa shook her head and broke free of his embrace, stepping back towards the side of the bed where she had been sitting. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at Sandor.

“His birthday was this week, the 7th. He turned 37.” She looked at her dad. Both eyebrows had gone up, so instead of listening to whatever he was about to say as he opened his mouth, she smiled gently, her brow raising in what she hoped was a supplicating expression. “Twelve years, Dad. I turn 25 next month. And you’re what… 11 years older than Mom?”

Ned looked away, his unfashionably long hair shaking ever so slightly over his shoulders as he shook his head. Sansa knew what was happening in his mind, and it wasn’t going to work--she knew it, and she knew that he knew it. 

He wasn’t going to come up with any valid argument for why she shouldn’t be with Sandor.

“So, do I have this right? He was an alcoholic until he met you, and your first big argument ended in him drinking so much alcohol that it sent him into a coma for a week?” 

_ Ah _ . Well, there was  _ that _ .

“Yes, Dad. But the argument we had, the disagreement… I guess…” No, that wasn’t right. “I know it was mostly my fault. I did something, and--” she tried to leave out all the details her dad didn’t need to know. “I hurt him, Dad, deeply. And I want to make it up to him when he’s recovered.”

“Someone going on a bender is not your fault, Sansa.” He looked at her with such a fatherly expression on his face that she went back to him and wrapped her arms around him again, feeling comforted that his immediately went around her shoulders. No love lost, she thought with a faint smile.

“I know that, Dad. But I also know that I love him, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way about me. So I’m going to give this a chance.”

She felt Ned’s sigh in her hair, and she mirrored it into his sweater. They stood there, both of them angled to see Sandor in the hospital bed.

“I guess that means I have to give him a chance, huh?” Sansa smiled, looking up with love in her eyes for her dad.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and she closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead.


	18. April 8, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little chapter just to give you guys some peace of mind <3
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there, guys. It WILL be finished!

“Sansa.”

That one word. Her name. Breathed out of Sandor’s mouth, it was the sweetest thing she had ever heard, and it followed one of her most trying days ever.

Sandor had moved his hands some more throughout the rest of the day, and towards evening he started moving his eyes, though they never opened. But all were telltale signs that he was coming out of the unconsciousness that had been weighing him down for nearly a week. Into the evening she and EB had sat together, until the last possible moment when EB had to leave for his evening classes and groups, with the promise that he would be back first thing in the morning.

And he was. And so was Catelyn and Ned. Then Arya and Gendry. And they’d been there for two hours.

Everyone who visited made sure to keep their voices down, but it was all too much for Sansa. She knew better--knew she had no claim to Sandor, knew that at some point  _ she _ would have to make amends. But not now. Now, she just wanted everyone to leave so that her face was the first one Sandor saw when he opened his eyes, and so that she could touch him and kiss him and whisper her love to him without anyone overhearing.

But it wasn’t to be, and as soon as she’d come back from getting her breakfast at the cafeteria, visits had begun. EB spent most of the day there, and though she usually didn’t mind his company… Today she minded  _ everyone’s _ company.

Sansa had warmly welcomed Catelyn and Ned, and had even eagerly described to them Sandor’s overnight progress and the visit with the doctor, when he said everything was pointing to Sandor coming out of it today, with a good prognosis.

It was obvious that her parents had a talk about Sandor, because they were a unified front, a fortification around Sansa as doctors and nurses came in and out of the room. 

Sansa’s mom took Arya and Gendry, telling them she would buy them lunch and to leave Sansa alone, though EB wasn’t included in that directive. As Sandor’s somewhat adopted father, he opted to stay for a little while longer.

By that time, Sansa was tired--tired of the visitors, tired of the waiting, tired of the lack of private time with Sandor and the lack of opportunity to touch him and talk to him as the nurses and doctor had instructed her to. So when EB asked her if she wanted him to get her dinner, she turned him down.

“Sandor wouldn’t want you to starve,” EB said, almost reproachfully. “He’d likely have my head if you so much as lost a pound.” 

Sansa smiled at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Sansa, I don’t know if you realize this, but you’re the best thing that has happened to Sandor since… well… ever.” EB gazed at Sandor, who laid motionless on the bed between them. “He’s been a different man since he met you a few months back. Very different.” The older man chuckled and said, “He actually  _ talks _ now.”

Sansa laughed, though he had told her all this before. It made her feel that much more appreciated that he was taking the time to tell her again.

“He was the quietest alcoholic I’ve ever met. Always sat in the back, left before group, but then a few words from me at the end of one evening and suddenly he was staying until group was over. But it was when he started talking about a ginger he’d met and all of a sudden we realized he was capable of holding conversations.” EB chuckled, shaking his head and fondly looking at Sandor.

But Sansa looked down at where she was holding onto Sandor’s hand, and she felt the yawn coming before EB called her out on it.

“Here I am hogging your time and look at you, Sansa, you’re exhausted.” He leaned over her and gave her a big hug, which Sansa returned one-handed, not willing to let go of Sandor’s.

He promised to come back during the night if she needed him, otherwise he’d be back in the morning. After farewells, Sansa watched him walk out the door, and it seemed that for the first time all day, the room was silent except for the remaining machines and monitors.

She had barely sat down beside the bed, ready to take out her phone and turn her alarm on for the morning, when she heard the raspy voice quietly say her name.

“Sansa.” 

She was standing in an instant, peering down at Sandor’s face, tears already pooling in her eyes. 

“Sandor! Sandor, are you there? Are you awake?” She watched as his eyelids flickered.

“Sansa,” he said again, and though his eyes opened, he appeared to try to focus on her face. His grip tightened on her fingers and she brought her hand up to his forehead, stroking the skin there, feeling the softness of his hair. 

“Shhh, it’s alright, Sandor. I’m here.”

A tear dropped onto his hair from Sansa’s face but she didn’t look away, couldn’t look away as long as there was a possibility he was going to become fully conscious. Her heart was racing, her fingertips were tingling, and she was  _ nervous _ , so damned nervous.

But then his eyelids drifted closed, and Sansa realized he was under again, though her heart felt like it was near bursting.

She reported what had happened to the nurse, and anxiously stayed awake, waiting for it to happen again. An hour later, she wasn’t disappointed. As Sandor’s grip on her hand increased, she watched his eyes blink open and then close again, only to open and stay open.

“Sandor,” she whispered, not wanting to startle him. He turned his head towards her but winced, eyes closing, so she stood and hovered over him, looking down into his tired-looking face.

“Sansa,” he whispered, though it seemed to take great effort from him. She shushed him and laid a hand against his cheek. 

“Don’t try to talk, just rest. You’ve been through a lot.” Her thick braid came to fall against his chest and he opened his eyes, seeing it hanging. His eyes closed again but not before the corners of his mouth lifted, the barest smile having the same effect on her heart. He leaned into her touch, pressing his face into her hand before he fell unconscious again.

It was like that for the next few hours, with Sandor waking long enough to murmur her name and perhaps look around for a few seconds before he would fall asleep again, though every time he did, he kept his eyes open for longer periods of time. 

A nurse finally caught him doing it when she was doing her rounds, and she attempted to ask him a couple questions but all he wanted to do was say Sansa’s name. 

Sansa must have dozed off, and when she woke it was to something tugging at her hair. She opened her eyes from where her face rested on the bed beside his hip, only to see that it was his fingers touching it, feeling it, from where it lay within his reach. Then she looked up at his face and found him staring intently at her.

“Sandor?” Her voice was uncertain, because she had begun to worry that his inability to speak anything but her name had pointed to some kind of brain damage, which she had been warned about this whole time as a possibility.

He smiled slightly at her again, and she sat up, feeling the achiness in her neck and back at sleeping in such an odd position. She stood nevertheless, and as she did so he turned his face upwards to see her. He winced again, but seemed more able to move his muscles than he was before.

He inhaled deeply and sighed through his nose, all the while looking and blinking at her. Sansa began to feel alarmed.

But then he said, “How long?” His voice was raspy, and she watched him struggle to swallow. She held out the cup the nurse had brought, having left instructions to give him a few sips if he tried to speak. Sansa brought the straw to his mouth and he took one small sip of it, though she watched as he moved the water around his mouth before swallowing.

“Five days,” she replied quietly, setting the cup aside. She was nervous again, though she gathered her courage and grasped his hand between both of her own. 

How much did he remember? Would the feelings surrounding their last night together--for either him or for her--come crashing back? She wasn’t feeling it, but she worried that it would happen for him.

“Christ,” he swore, though he found himself unable to bring his hand up to wipe at his face. His eyes closed for a moment, as though he was considering the implications of her words.

Then they opened again, and went back to her face.

“You’ve… been here? Five days?” His brow drew together over his eyes, but it seemed to take great effort to think. 

“I have been working the last few days, but yeah, I’ve been sleeping here. EB sits with you while I’m at work.”

“EB?” It looked hard for Sandor to take in, hard for his brain to comprehend what was going on. 

“We’ve been waiting for you, Sandor. EB, my parents, Gendry and Arya. We have all been rooting for you to wake up.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head ever so slightly at the influx of information, but then his eyes went back to hers.

“Sansa, we…” He didn’t complete his sentence, but drifted away for a moment, as though he was going to fall back asleep. Sansa’s heart raced, thinking about what he had been about to say. Was he going to say they’d had sex? Argued? Broke up? What exactly did he remember? What damage control was she going to have to do?!

He suddenly turned his head again, towards where she had been sitting, so she sat back down, holding onto his hand. He opened his eyes and looked at her, but Sansa didn’t see any animosity or anger in them. He seemed happy, content, even.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, before he really did close his eyes and began to fade away again. Sansa lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles just as he looked back down at her.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Sandor.”

Soon they weren’t alone again for another whole day, though Sansa stayed by his side unless he was taken away for testing, or when she was ushered out of the room once it was clear he likely had enough motor function to stand and have the catheter taken out. 

His ability to remain awake increased exponentially, until he was able to be awake for the few visitors and multiple doctors and nurses that were coming through. He had no room for modesty or self consciousness through it all, though Sansa noted he was reluctant to let go of her hand. EB, who arrived first, was no problem, and Sandor even seemed surprised at how close Sansa and the man had gotten. EB’s tears also affected Sandor, and he had to clear his throat several times during that initial conversation with his mentor.

Once Sansa and Sandor were alone in the room again, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, before explaining the remaining four visitors who might show up.

“Gendry you know, of course, but my sister Arya has also been here, and my mom and dad want to come by.”

Sandor looked away, his hair brushing over his cheek as uncertainty flashed across his face. Sansa still held his hand, and she squeezed it then.

“Sandor, my mom sat with me on the evenings after I got off work.”

He looked at her, eyes wide. 

“She was here for that long?” 

Sansa nodded, but she looked down at where their hands were joined. 

“She’s been really supportive, just sitting here with me while I waited.” Sansa looked up at him, watching his face to gauge his reaction. “She wants to meet you, but said they would wait for an invitation.”

Sandor nodded slowly, obviously trying to process what she was telling him.

“They?”

“My parents.”

“What did you… tell them, about me?”

Sansa smiled softly, still so happy to be able to hear his voice again. It was a bit rougher than normal, and he wasn’t talking at length, of course, but he was here, he was back, and she was so very thankful for it.

So she decided to be honest, because there was nothing else she could do that seemed right.

“I told them that we’re together, and that I was going to be with you through your stay in the hospital. They are both anxious to meet you.” She saw consternation in his face, so she quickly added, “But that can wait, if you want. Until you’re out of the hospital?”

Sandor glanced at her, held her gaze for a moment, before looking away. He appeared to be thinking as he looked out the window on the other side of the room. Sansa let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, when he nodded.


	19. April 10, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's one of those popcorn memes, for the comment section? I feel like I may need one soon.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there, everyone, I really appreciate it! We're nearing the end!

Two days later, Sandor was ready to leave the hospital. He was still weak, but the doctors announced he would likely, miraculously, make a full recovery. It was a matter of getting his strength back up now that he’d spent a week either immobile, or over the last couple of days, just barely moving.

And through it all, Sansa was a presence at his side. She helped him when he needed adjusting on his bed, made sure he had enough food, bugged the nurses when something needed changing, and kept his mind going with idle chatter in between visits by the medical staff. 

True to her word, she kept her parents away while he recovered, and as of his discharge day, they had not showed up at the hospital again.

Gendry and Arya had, however, and as uncomfortable as it was meeting Sansa’s little sister, it was great to see Gendry again. When Sandor saw the younger man, he felt like he gave the first true smile that he had since waking up. Gendry was the closest thing he had had to a friend for a long time, and he felt Gendry knew that. Which was probably why Gendry grasped his hand and gave him a one-armed hug right on the hospital bed.

But their short visit wasn’t enough to erase the turbulent thoughts swirling in his mind.  _ Sansa, Sansa, Sansa _ . Thoughts of their last night together, bits and pieces of memories, were slowly floating back into place as the days wore on. 

At first it was pure happiness to see her, but then he remembered her face as she left the cabin that night. Then he remembered her hands and mouth, how fervently she’d moved above him. Then there was the drive to the liquor store and an overwhelming curiosity at the feelings of despair that accompanied those thoughts. He even remembered handing the cashier two twenty dollar bills, but not the change he had received.

Slowly, as Sansa uncovered and salted his food, or walked out to refill his ice water, or closed the blinds during a particularly sunny afternoon, pieces came back to him, floating down onto the giant puzzle of that evening like leaves on a pond. And like those leaves, every memory sent out ripples of awareness, and as the days wore on, he grew more and more disquieted at what they showed.

His extremely quick climax inside of her.

Blood on the sheet.

His face pressed against the bathroom door as he pleaded for her to speak to him.

Sansa was looking at him throughout the day like he was an answered prayer, but all he could think of was what he had taken from her, and her emotionally curdling reaction to him afterwards. 

He understood why he had allowed his weakness for alcohol to overcome his rational thought, and why he had driven to the liquor store that night, not even waiting to get home before he had opened the bottle and guzzled half of it.

He understood her numbly gathering her clothes that night. The silent walk to the bathroom. Her lack of goodbye as she’d walked out the door.

He understood why he felt like the memories were wrapped around his neck, choking him, even while she stood there, smiling at him now, from just past the foot of his hospital bed.

And he tried during these last few recovering days--oh, how he had  _ tried _ \--to be calm. To act normal. To react to her the way she was reacting to him, as though she was happy to see him. But he knew she wasn’t. Not really. He looked at her now and saw the turmoil on her face after he had taken her virginity.

She talked about plans and what they would do after he got out of the hospital and how she would help him, and all he could think about was locking his doors, never venturing outside his cabin except to hole himself up in his shop, escaping into the mindless clanging of hammer on steel, the droning hum of belt grinders, the whooshing sounds of a knife being slid across the surface of a belt, sparks flying down at his welding apron as he took off layer after layer after layer of steel, building up layer upon layer of defense against the pain.

And in his mind, each and every one of those sparks started to fall in front of him now, building a wall around him until the day the doctor came in and announced he could be discharged. The wall of cooled sparks formed around his heart and protected it against the heartbreak of keeping Sansa away.

She hadn’t kissed him, or held her face too close to his, as he had felt her do while he was coming out from underneath the fog of alcohol-induced unconsciousness. But she had held his hand, nearly constantly, over the last few days. And as the days wore on, he felt his grip on her loosening, until he was sure she had noticed the difference and kept her hands away from him, despite the close proximity with which she was sitting to him.

And so it was, that when the hour came when he was going to be discharged and Gendry happened to be there, Sandor subtly hinted that he could ride home with him. Sansa had been in the restroom but as she opened the doors, he widened his eyes at Gendry’s face, willing him to not argue. 

Gendry caught on, and he looked back and forth between Sandor and Sansa a few times. 

“I’ll get him out to my car and drive him home, Sansa. He’s too heavy for you to carry, and if he falls he’s likely to kill both of you.” He said the last with a laugh.

“Oh…” 

Sansa looked surprised, but she glanced at Sandor and he just barely smiled at her, going for  _ reassuring _ and probably not quite hitting the mark. 

“Okay. Well,” she sat again in the chair beside his bed, “Call me later, and when you’re settled we can hang out, okay?”

He nodded, but the nurse came in just then, and he barely heard a word of his discharge instructions as he watched Sansa listen attentively. She was looking at the nurse, her face in profile to him, and he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful. 

But still, the way she had avoided his eyes  _ that night _ . It weighed on his soul, and he saw it nearly every time he looked at her.

Her hair was braided now, a thick cord of red hanging over her shoulder. And she was playing with the tip of the braid, twirling it in her fingers, stroking it down to the the last few hairs, splitting it and curling the two clumps together. 

She was wearing some kind of long, soft-looking sweater today, over a pair of black leggings and what looked like ballet slippers. She was gorgeous, all ivory skin and freckles, with that long neck that he remembered the taste of, those lips that he remembered the feel of.

It didn’t feel fair, and it didn’t feel right, that this actually might be the last time he would see her. But he couldn’t go on like nothing was wrong, when he knew he very well could have ruined her life that night. He couldn’t bear to think of her thinking that what they did that night… That it had been unwanted. 

He felt like his heart was being torn out of his chest, but there it was--words to the thoughts that had been circulating through his mind for a couple days.  _ Unwanted _ . And here she was, acting like everything was copacetic.

EB had sent a message through Sansa saying he would visit Sandor in a day or two, now that Sandor was going to be at home for a while. His mentor had a new sponsee who was having some trouble dealing with sober life, and EB had volunteered to spend some extra time with him, an action that Sandor could no more fault EB for than he could fault the sun for rising. EB was made to help people like this young guy--like Sandor. And as soon as they got together again, Sandor knew he’d have a long talk with EB about what had happened after Sansa left that night.

When it was time to go, she walked them out, though she didn’t touch him. He could see that she knew something was wrong, something was different, but he didn’t have the heart to talk to her about any of it. A clean break was what they needed, what she needed, and he aimed to give it to her. So when Gendry helped his weak body climb into the passenger side of Gendry’s truck, Sandor promptly reached out and shut the door, leaving Sansa standing on the sidewalk, arms hanging, mouth open.

In his peripheral vision he could see Gendry stop to talk to her, said something to her that didn’t make her move at all. Sandor wondered what it was.

Then, when Gendry climbed into the front seat and said, “What the fuck are you doing, man?” Sandor didn't say anything. He didn’t say anything the whole ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you guys thought he would wake up, they'd kiss, make up, make babies, and live happily ever after?!
> 
> Mwa ha ha ha
> 
> I'm not letting you off THAT easily.
> 
> At least Gendry knows Sandor is seriously screwing up <3


	20. May 13, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby chapter, but we really needed some more of EB's wisdom.

Sandor's recovery was a nightmare. Not because healing was hard, or because his stomach was rejecting almost all the food he tried to eat, or because he wanted a drink-- _ hell no, he didn't _ . 

It was a nightmare because he kept  _ having _ nightmares.

His nightmares always ended up the same way--with him waking up to sheets soaked with sweat, his heart racing, his skin tingling. It was torture, almost as much torture as what he felt when he ignored Sansa's texts during those first two weeks after his hospital stay.

> Sansa: I hope you're feeling okay, just wanted to check in on you. 
> 
> Sansa: My birthday is coming up. Thought maybe we could do something soon? Dinner?
> 
> Sansa: I don’t understand why you’re not answering.
> 
> Sansa: I'm sorry

That last one, received late one late night as he was lying in bed dreading falling asleep, had been a nightmare itself. How was it that she could still tug so damned hard on his heart strings while he was over here, just wanting her  _ gone _ . Gone from his mind, gone from the guilt, gone from his heart.

The texts had come less and less, as did the voicemails that he erased before listening to. Though the fewer attempts from her at communication he received, the more nightmares he seemed to have. 

They all featured her in varying scenarios, all ending with his almost violent waking.

Some of the nightmares started with a repeat of the night he drank--of her above him, half bare, then her beneath him, naked and writhing on the bed. But just before he would enter her she would turn to him, and half of her face would bear the same scars he himself had, only they were fresh and raw and red, sometimes to the point of still having scabs on them. One time he woke up to her screams as the scars appeared on her face, as though her skin was burning as he watched, helpless to do anything but suffer through the dream until he woke, a yell tearing from his throat.

Other dreams started with her bending over to check dinner in the oven at her apartment, and when she would stand to face him it would be the same thing--scars. Horrible, ugly, scars marring her perfect face.

Sometimes he dreamed that she stopped him from following through when they were in his bed that night, but she did it so violently, so loudly and vehemently, that he woke up feeling as though he was on the verge of assaulting her. He woke on those mornings feeling as though her reaction would be seared into his memory forever and he would never be able to forgive himself. It was those dreams that drove him to speak to EB.

"I can't do this anymore, EB," he said, his face covered by both hands. He sat in EB's office at the church, across the wide expanse of desk with his elbows resting on his knees. "It's enough to make me think about drinking."

EB had welcomed him in after everyone from the meeting had left, since the man usually stayed after service to make sure he, as the recovery pastor, personally greeted and sent off everyone who had come to visit the meetings.

"And will you?" EB asked. Sandor hoped he was joking.

"Are you kidding me? Alcohol nearly killed me; I'm not going back to that." He was 100% certain. But that didn’t mean his mind didn’t conjure thoughts of bottles during his darkest moments.

EB nodded, his steepled fingers resting against his lips. He took a deep breath and let his hands fall.

"If not alcohol, how have you been dealing with these nightmares?"

Sandor snorted, and then replied sarcastically, "Not very well." He sighed and leaned back in the chair. With one hand he combed the hair back from his face and let it fall back around his shoulders. 

"Work," he admitted. "Lots and lots of work. My shoulder aches from hammering, I'm surprised I have eyebrows with how much I've been working that forge, and I have enough knives stocked to last me nearly through the summer."

EB raised his eyebrows. He’d heard Sandor speak so much about knifemaking that Sandor knew he’d understand. The time it took to turn out a single knife meant Sandor had to be working damn near round-the-clock, which was true.

"How many hours a day would you estimate you've been working?"

Sandor looked up without moving his head, then looked away. 

“Fourteen…” His eyes darted up and then back to the floor again. “Sometimes sixteen hours.”

“Well fuck, Sandor, no wonder you’re having nightmares. You need to regulate that sleep schedule or you’ll be a slave to your body.” 

EB leaned forward in his office chair, looking intently at Sandor. 

“First thing you need to do is get some melatonin and take it at the same time, every night. And cut back on the work.” He was looking at Sandor as though he meant for that to solve all of Sandor’s woes, but Sandor felt like it would only amplify others.

“But I can’t be idle, that’s the thing. I start… thinking.” Sandor was disgusted at this weakness in him, that he had to hide himself away in his work in order to avoid thoughts of Sansa. But even more so, he was afraid. Afraid to think of her, to think of what might have been, what he had lost, what she was doing, what she was thinking, who she was with.

Every day it was the same thing--wake up thinking about her and do whatever he could to push her out of his mind. Whatever he could, minus turning to alcohol.

“Second, you have to do something about Sansa,” EB was saying as though he could see Sandor’s thoughts. Sandor looked up at him, noting the raised eyebrows and deadpan expression on the man’s face. “Since she is obviously the cause of all of this, you need to figure out what to do about it.”

“What the fuck do you think I should do?!” asked Sandor, angry that EB would even say anything about her. After all, he fought every day to banish her from his thoughts, to ignore the incessant pounding of her memory as though it was a doorknocker on his consciousness. 

“Do you think I should go up to her and say, ‘Hey Sansa, sorry I popped your cherry and ruined you for your husband, now get out of my head’?!” 

Just the thought made his stomach turn, the thought of saying  _ anything _ to her. He preferred his hole, his hot workshop with the pounding of steel and the red hot coals that looked as welcoming as the love his brother had given him. 

EB was quiet for a time, allowing Sandor to process some of his thoughts before continuing.

“Yes,” he simply said, and Sandor barked out a rude laugh.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, “You’ve gone insane. Why do you think contacting her-- _ how _ could you think contacting her, could ever be a good idea? I  _ told _ you what happened between us. I  _ told _ you how she reacted, how she left without hardly looking back. How I begged her to talk to me and she clammed up.” He shook his head, fighting the damned tears he felt pricking his eyes. 

“I fucking told you, EB. I…  _ fuck _ !” he swore. 

He couldn’t look at his mentor, or else he thought the tears just might fall.

There was more silence in the room. The only sound to be heard was the pounding of Sandor’s own heart, the ringing in his ears, and the clock on the wall ticking away the seconds, though for once he wished they would speed the fuck up.

When EB spoke, it was in his perpetual calm, his soothing, scratchy voice, as he pushed his chair back away from the desk.

“Sandor,” he said gently, coming around to perch on the corner of the secondhand desk, beside Sandor. He waited silently, as though he was a school teacher and he knew the student would know what he wanted. So Sandor looked up at him, ever respectful of EB’s position, EB’s wisdom, even though he felt that acting the petulant child just then would be more preferable.

“We have spent, what--a year? Fourteen months?--focusing on your recovery. That means you’ve gone through all the steps, you’ve relapsed, you’ve begun working the steps again, and so on.” 

He sighed, and Sandor wondered if he was going to make a point.

“I think--” 

He paused mid-thought, though when he looked down at Sandor, his smile was kind, his eyes wrinkled at the corners. 

“Sandor, there are things you don’t know, forces at work you don’t understand, and I think we should sit down and have coffee over it.” 

He paused again and asked with his face, those eyebrows consistently high on his forehead, if that would be amenable to Sandor.

Sandor wasn't sure that’s what he wanted, wasn’t sure if it would do any good. But he was suddenly curious what EB was going to talk about, since he had mentioned Sandor’s recovery, and what it might mean for his current situation. He trusted EB, and knew the man was wise counsel when someone was struggling. 

And he was nothing if not struggling, a man floundering in the wake of his own emotional rampage.


	21. May 13, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my shortest chapter ever. Seriously.
> 
> Another small chapter, but it had to be done. It might be a few days for Chapter 22, I have a girl with a birthday party this weekend, and a husband who doesn't work on Sunday, so not much time to edit until possibly early next week.
> 
> Hang in there! The end is in sight!

Sansa had given up hope that Sandor would respond to her after he’d been out of the hospital for two weeks. He didn’t answer her texts, nor reply to her phone calls, where she left a message after listening to his generic robot voicemail.

It was a miracle that she was able to hold herself together for that small period of time where she politely asked him to let her know how he was doing.

She’d given up on telling him how much he meant to her, and that she wanted to see him again. Her last text message read _I’m sorry_.

This didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting, or that she wasn’t feeling like her heart was small and shriveled and broken. After spending so long in one-sided conversations, waiting for him to wake up and return her feelings--to be brought down a few pegs by his cold shoulder outside the hospital, she’d been crushed. She was crushed. The feeling hadn’t gone away in nearly a month’s time.

Her birthday was next week, a week from today. He hadn’t even responded to that tidbit of information. And when that had failed to rouse him out of silence, she knew he was gone. She knew she couldn't bait him into conversation.

Those first two weeks had been horrible. She knew she had lost weight--her jeans were slightly baggier than they had been when he’d gone into the hospital. And she wasn’t sleeping well, her use of concealer to hide the dark circles and bags under her eyes increasing exponentially. Her mother insisted on visiting now on a regular basis, but they didn’t talk about Sandor--not after that last time.

“What about Arya? Can’t Arya speak to Gendry about Sandor?” Catelyn had asked. Sansa had already had about enough of the talk, and was getting upset.

“Mom, you don’t understand. I won’t try to enlist someone else to spy on him for me.” Sansa had sat heavily on her foot on her couch, after having put down two steaming cups of tea on the coffee table. “I tried that in the beginning, remember? And got schooled by Arya on not making her boyfriend uncomfortable.”

Catelyn had merely nodded, likely remembering that round of tears that Sansa had shed on her shoulder.

They both sipped at their tea for some time before Catelyn spoke again.

“I just can’t imagine him doing something like this, not after everything you told me about him. Of course, I’m upset with him for hurting you.”

Catelyn had looked over, pointedly, over the rim of her cup.

“He has hurt my baby and if we ever meet again he’ll have to answer to your father and I.”

She’d looked at Sansa with a single raised eyebrow, her face betraying all mother bear instincts going on in her mind at the time. Then she’d sighed heavily, the steam from her cup suddenly taking a path away from her face.

“I just don’t understand, I suppose. What would make him react this way? What could have happened to him that as soon as he woke up, he changed? It doesn’t make sense.”

Sansa had steadily gotten more aggravated as her mother spoke, and when she finally replied it was testily, not wanting to speak harshly to her mom.

“It wasn’t as soon as he woke up, mom,” she’d said, staring off into the distance near the TV as she recalled Sandor’s face and how relieved he’d been to see her. But then it was that face changing, minute by minute, hour by hour, after he’d woken up. As though his physical body had woken first, but then his mind woke as well.

Sansa knew what had changed. It was his memories that had changed. Or rather, him becoming aware of his memories.

“What do you mean, honey?”

Sansa glanced over at her mom, but quickly glanced away. She hadn’t told her mom all of what had happened the night Sandor drank himself into a coma, nor did she have any plans to. But now was not the time to keep secrets away from her mom, and in order to stop the line of questioning that resumed _every single time_ her mom came over, Sansa cleared her throat and spoke.

“He was happy to see me at first, mom, but then it seemed like he remembered what we had argued about. And by the time he left the hospital, it was as though I was the last person he wanted to see.”

Sansa had taken a deep breath, eyes not leaving the corner of the entertainment center, her gaze trained on an unimportant aspect of her furniture. When she spoke it was quiet, her breath hitched as she remembered what had happened.

“I guess we really didn’t argue. I gave him my virginity, mom.”

Even without looking, Sansa saw her mom’s head whip around.

To her credit, Catelyn didn’t say anything at first. They again sat in silence, Sansa allowing her mother to mull over that tidbit of information, all the while feeling anger simmering on the outskirts of her emotions.

When her mom spoke, it was choppy, certainly uncertain territory for her mom.

“So… you mean, you’d never… You argued over _that_? You…” It was obvious Catalyn couldn’t put a voice to her thoughts, so Sansa just went ahead and started speaking.

“We did _that_ ,” she mimicked sarcastically, and then more seriously continued, “But afterwards I realized I regretted it. But… It still happened.”

Catelyn was staring at her, but Sansa refused to look in her direction. There seemed to be nothing worse than admitting to her that she gave away the one thing her mother had always told her was sacred. They weren’t an overly religious family, but it had been stressed while Sansa was growing up that it was special.

“What do you mean, it still happened?”

Sensing her mom’s rising upset, Sansa looked over then and shook her head, though she felt the sadness in her eyes.

“Mom, he didn’t force me,” she said, a small smile and shake of her head accompanying her statement. The implied suggestion sounded too ridiculous to her.

“But… I let it go too far, and before I knew it, we were done.”

“Done?”

“Moooom,” she groaned, not wanting to go into details. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the couch. “We were-- he had--”

“Okay, alright, I get it,” her mom rushed, cutting off Sansa’s sentence. She looked over at Catelyn and saw the redness on her cheeks.

“It’s too late to blush, mom,” she said, and then felt the first tears spill over her eyelids.

Catelyn saw, and she murmured a _Oh, honey_ before Sansa leaned over and put her head on her mother’s lap to cry. She had cried so many tears over Sandor already, what was a few more?

It was some time later when she sniffed into the tissue Catelyn had handed her.

“So,” Catelyn said in a quiet tone, “Why would Sandor not be answering your texts and calls right now?”

Sansa took a deep, shuddering breath, sighing into the material of her mother’s slacks.

“Because I was upset afterwards, and I walked out. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

She felt Catelyn nod.

“Ah. And that’s why he drank…”

Sansa only nodded in response.

“I see.” Though Sansa wasn’t sure her mother actually _did_ see.

Despite all those talks she’d had with EB in the hospital, Sansa still felt guilty for her part in Sandor’s relapse. It was too obvious that, had she not reacted so badly to him that night, that he wouldn’t have gone on that binge, wouldn’t have drank himself unconscious minutes after she’d walked out his front door.

What EB _was_ right about, was that she couldn’t let those feelings control her life. _Now_ that was easy, because heartbreak had taken over. During those days in the hospital with Sandor her love for him had grown, and her need for him had eclipsed all doubt she’d had in her mind on the day they parted. She had spent her days imagining them dating, and after speaking with Arya, thought about them making love, and eventually growing old together. She felt in her heart they had such potential, and now he was the one turning her away--he was the one rejecting her as thoroughly as she had rejected him.

When she received an invitation from Arya to have a sister’s night out, just the two of them, for Sansa’s birthday, she knew it was time to let it go. To let Sandor go.

The following night, Wednesday, would be the day before her birthday and she was determined to enjoy it. Arya was taking her to a small, informal nightclub, more dinner restaurant than club, and she was going to act like nothing was wrong.

Like her heart hadn’t been ripped out of her chest by circumstance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had Sandor Angst in Chapter 20. It was now time for Sansa Angst <3


	22. May 20, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The steps I reference in this chapter are for the twelve step program I have Sandor participating in. They seem to be universal throughout the programs - AA, NA, Celebrate Recovery, etc. I was personally involved in Celebrate Recovery, which is an amazing program even for those who are not addicted to substances. 
> 
> So, more of EB in this chapter, but c'mon. I love that guy <3

Sandor knew he looked like a monster. He was an angry man tonight, and the men of the group gave him a wide berth when he fumed in the small meeting, as though he was a one-man thunderstorm. He didn’t speak, he didn’t participate, but he knew EB would say it was a success that he was even there.

He didn’t want to hang around when EB asked him to, but he did anyway. Some days it felt like EB was the only person, the only rope tethering him to reality. 

There was also Gendry. But  _ fuck _ \--he didn’t want to talk to Gendry. The younger man reminded him of Sansa by default. He was dating Sansa’s sister, and would be privy to information that Sandor couldn’t help but want to ask about. 

But he never did. And Gendry wasn’t one to pry, so when they met it was for business reasons.

Sandor hadn’t been working quite as much, but he still put in twelve hour days in his workshop, every day. EB had tried to tell him it wasn’t enough of a decrease, but a growl from Sandor had meant the older man was silent about it now. 

He now waited in EB’s office, slouched in that infernal arm chair, his scarred cheek resting on the back of his raised fist. He could see through the curtain of his hair, but barely. Not that he cared, but he was aware that he was back to hiding, and fuck anyone who said he shouldn’t.

It wasn’t long before EB walked in and shut the door quietly behind him. The man rounded the desk and took a seat in his office chair, his smile genuine when he looked at Sandor.

“I’m glad you came to group today, Sandor.” 

Of course, Sandor knew what he was saying. Last week Sandor had mentioned privately that today would be Sansa’s birthday, and that he likely would not be at group. But then EB had told him if that were true, then Sansa would still have quite a hold on Sandor, and this was Sandor’s way of saying, “No, she doesn’t,” despite them both knowing the truth.

“You wanted to talk?” Sandor said, not moving from his position. He just didn’t care anymore.

“Yes, we never finished our conversation from a couple weeks ago. Do you remember?”

Of course he fucking remembered. EB had talked about Sandor’s recovery, and though he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since coming out of the coma, he had realized work was his new drug of choice. An acceptable one, he thought.

But to EB he just nodded, so the man went on. 

“I wanted to talk to you about your recovery, since you’ve started over at the beginning.” EB pushed books and papers out of the way so he could lean his elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of him. “You’re currently on step two, but I want to talk to you about step nine and step ten. I know you know them.” He paused, and Sandor glanced up through his hair. “Could you tell me what they are, please?”

EB’s voice was kind, but there was an undercurrent of authority, of a fatherly command that had Sandor reciting the words he’d long ago memorized. 

“‘Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others’; and ‘Continue to take personal inventory and when we are wrong promptly admit it.’” 

“You see, Sandor,” EB said, not waiting for Sandor to verbalize any thoughts on the two steps, “I believe you need to make amends, and that you need to admit you were wrong.” 

“Fuck that,” Sandor said immediately. “Don’t you realize that’s what got me here in the first place? Because you’re talking about Sansa, right? Fuck. No. If I hadn’t worked these damned steps I never would have met her, and I wouldn't be going through this right now.”

He sat up straight during his tirade and looked out the window at the dusky evening light. Shaking his head, he laughed harshly, thinking how what EB had said was absurd.

But EB looked at him with such a sad,  _ you silly child _ look that Sandor became even more mad.

“True,” EB said, nodding, “But you’ve said yourself, the happiest moments in your life came from knowing Sansa.”

“But that doesn’t outweigh the bad, EB,” Sandor spat out.

“Doesn’t it?” EB left the question hanging in the air for a few moments. “Don’t you think you deserve to be happy? That you deserve to have someone who loves you, and who cares for you? Because you obviously had that with Sansa.” 

Sandor shook his head and scratched at the denim on his knee. The fabric was stretched taut, thick and tough like the calluses on his hands.

“She didn’t love me, EB.” He couldn’t look at EB as he said it, but his gaze whipped up to EB’s at the older man’s next words.

“That’s not what she told me.”

Sandor’s heart beat a little faster, though he tamped it down with disbelief. EB must have seen this because he gave a ghost of a smile. 

“You don’t think you were in the hospital for what, six? Seven days? Without me getting to know the woman who sat by your side the entire time?” 

His chuckle was harsh and short, but his smile was genuine. 

“She really was a wonderful young woman, Sandor. She was so attentive, so kind and patient, waiting for you to wake up.” He stood and walked over to the bookshelf, where a host of knickknacks sat lined up on the shelves. He picked up a small geode and turned it over in his hand. “Do you remember what you texted me that night? After you’d already been drunk for some time?”

Sandor’s head came up from where it was again resting on his fist. He hadn’t remembered sending anything. EB glanced back at him and nodded.

“You told me you’d  _ fucked up _ . Now, if that’s not an admission of making a mistake, of regret, of needing to make amends, I don’t know what is.” He put the geode back and picked up a porcelain figurine of a puppy. “And do you know what step 9 releases you from? What apologizing releases you from?”

Sandor sighed, knowing where this was going. “The chains of regret,” he ground out, feeling as though EB was determined to drag the answers out of him.

The man turned around and smiled at Sandor before putting the puppy back. He returned to his seat and smiled.

“Yes, you’re right. Now, more about what Sansa said in the hospital--she told me about what happened between you two.”

Sandor groaned.  _ Fuck _ . “So you know how this all happened, how I ruined her life, how she was so mad at me that she walked out without saying goodbye. Without saying anything to me.”

EB shook his head, his voice full of that irritating pragmatism when he said, “Again, that is not what she said.”

“No? What did she say?” Sandor’s words were harsh, critical. “Did she say that I took her virginity? That I stole that from her, and… and… broke her?” 

He didn’t want to think of any of this. He didn’t want to remember the deadness on her face as she’d walked away.

“No,” EB was saying, and Sandor was pulled out of his thoughts when EB said, “She said she loved you.”

Sandor couldn’t help it--he barked out a laugh at that. Absurd. Ridiculous. 

“That’s not fucking true. She hated me in that moment.”

But EB shook his head, holding up a hand when Sandor would have continued. 

“No, no. I don’t think she did. You didn’t see her in the hospital, Sandor. You didn’t see how many times she cried, how determined she was that you were not to be left alone. She and I had a schedule, did you know that? She worked during the day and slept there at the hospital with you, every single night.”

Sandor hadn’t known this, hadn’t thought to ask, really.

“She slept there,” EB continued, “And I came in the morning to relieve her so she could work. Then she’d be back, and we would sit and talk.”

He rubbed a hand down his face before saying, “I got to know her quite well, and I believed her when she said she loves you.”

A faint light found its way into Sandor’s heart, but he staunchly ignored it. 

What EB was saying couldn’t be true. How could Sansa admit to loving him after he’d just… After they’d just… No, it couldn’t be true, must not be true. The way she’d walked away from him was not the walk of a woman who loved him.

“The reason why I am telling you this,” said the older man, before he paused to make sure Sandor was listening, “Is because I received a call from Gendry earlier today.”

_ Fucking Gendry _ , Sandor thought. A meddling employee wasn’t something he needed. He knew Gendry and EB had met, but didn’t know they even knew each other’s phone numbers. 

“What the fuck did he want,” Sandor growled. In the weeks he had tried to avoid all thoughts of Sansa, this night was determined to force him to think about her. Might as well focus on something other than her, like Gendry.

“He reminded me that today is Sansa’s birthday, which I’m assuming you already know.” A growl was Sandor’s response. EB walked slowly towards the door of his office as he continued, “And Gendry said her and her sister went out to a club last night.”

Sandor’s nostrils flared. He shouldn’t care. From behind him came EB’s voice.

“Gendry said that Arya told him Sansa met someone--” Sandor twisted, his eyes shooting up to EB’s “--and that she seemed to like him.”

Sandor stood so fast that the chair tipped behind him and toppled to the floor. EB didn’t say anything, though he stood in front of the door very casually, with his hands in his pockets, watching Sandor’s reaction.

Sandor suddenly felt like a trapped dog, ready to fight and yet locked in a room. “Let me out, EB,” he said, his voice menacing.

“To what end, Sandor?” asked EB quietly, reasonably. “So that you can go to her? And do what? Look at you--you have no idea who this man is, you don’t know how he treated Sansa, and you certainly don’t have any rights to her--you kicked her out of your life as quickly as you could once you stepped outside those hospital doors.” 

EB lowered his head, though his eyes remained trained on Sandor’s red face. 

“She is not yours, Sandor,” he reminded him, though Sandor’s heart was screaming otherwise.

“Move.” Sandor glowered at him, but EB ignored him. He stood in front of the door, daring Sandor to do something. But Sandor wouldn’t, he knew he wouldn’t do anything to harm EB. Besides Sansa, EB had been the best thing to happen to him in recent years, and he didn’t want to fuck it up as he had with Sansa.

But then his own thoughts drew him up short and he stood tall, his fists unclenching at his sides. He realized his heart was still telling him that Sansa was one of the best things that had ever happened to him-- _ hell _ , probably  _ the _ best. And he had just admitted to himself what he had told EB all those weeks ago in a drunk text--he’d fucked it up.

“You see?” EB was saying, again reading Sandor’s thoughts. But then he said more gently, “Son, you have no claim on her.” 

EB was slowly walking towards him as the anger seeped out of Sandor’s body. He suddenly went from caged animal to little boy, and he felt as though his heart was being torn in two all over again.

EB had called him  _ son _ , a fact that was not lost on him when he felt EB’s hand on his arm. There was a squeeze, and Sandor looked down into the eyes of the man who had been more father to him than his own had been. 

A tear slid down his cheek, and he realized he hadn’t even known he was crying.

“What do I do, EB,” he rasped, his voice tortured and faint. 

He pictured Sansa’s face as he had seen it that evening--smiling, joyful, laughing at him. Her beautiful blue eyes, those dainty eyebrows of hers, the perfect bow of a mouth. He could see in his mind her pale skin, the way, when he looked close, he could see light freckles on her shoulders. 

Then he pictured a faceless man, some average Joe Blow seeing the same freckles, holding her hands, kissing her lips, and Sandor dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the images to go away. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he whispered when they didn’t, a grimace on his face. “What do I do?”

EB let his hand drift off Sandor’s arm as he bent to right the seat Sandor had knocked over. As though he had been told to, Sandor sat, wiping the wetness from first one eye and then the other, smearing it back at his temples. He slid his hands over the thighs of his jeans, wiping away the evidence of what an idiot he was.

“You work the steps,” EB said gently, the smile coming through his voice even though Sandor was staring at the ugly multi-colored carpet beneath his feet. “It works if you work it.” 

And Sandor knew--he had known this to be true, even before Sansa. That first week he’d gone without having a drop of alcohol, and the ensuing text conversation he’d had with Sansa two months later had proven to him what a sober life could be like.

“Do you think she’ll forgive me?” He didn’t want to sound weak, but there was no help for it. And now he might have lost her, lost her to a club-hopping asshole who swooped in when Sandor had turned his back on her. 

EB clamped a fatherly hand on Sandor’s shoulder. 

“She never had any reason to, son. I think she has loved you since before that night, honestly.”

Sandor shook his head.

“But what happened between us--”

“--Is not unfixable,” interrupted EB. “Just because you two rushed into that when she wasn’t ready, doesn’t mean she’ll never be ready, or that she’ll never enjoy it. You just have to be… smarter,” he said, nodding at his own choice of words. Then the older man laughed, squeezing Sandor’s shoulder before letting go. 

“And slow the fuck down! You’re thirty-seven, you don’t need to treat her as though you two are rabbits!”

Sandor huffed, though he wasn’t seeing the same humor that EB was.

“Work the steps,” he said, wiping both hands over his face and pulling at his beard before sitting back in the chair. “So you’re saying I need to apologize and make amends.” He cleared his throat, baffled as to what his next move should be.

EB nodded and sat back down in his desk chair. “Apologize and make amends,” he nodded, “Unless to do so would cause more damage.”

Sandor looked up. “What do you mean?”

EB looked slightly uncomfortable, and he ran a hand through his still-thick hair. The salt and pepper mess laid back as his hand passed over it, then stood right back on end when his hand fell away.

“She met a man, though I don’t know what happened with it, so you need to be prepared for everything that might entail.”

“You mean…” Sandor didn’t even want to voice his thoughts. He closed his eyes. “You mean if her second time was with someone else.” He opened his eyes and looked at EB. The words were like shattered glass in his throat. “If she has chosen someone else to move on with?”  _ Christ _ , he wanted to cry at the thought.

There was a nod from across the desk, though also a conciliatory smile as EB said, “Exactly. It is important to make amends, even when it might be you who hurts on the other side of the apology.” 

A short time later, when Sandor sat in his truck contemplating what EB had said, he held his phone in his hand, ready to text Sansa. What he  _ felt _ like doing was driving to her place and telling her that she was his, that he was sorry for what happened and that he wanted her with him for the rest of his life and that he would never, ever hurt her again as long as she would say  _ yes, _ that they could get back together.

But no. He had to do this right. If there was any chance that she would forgive him for being such an ass, he couldn’t screw it up. So he opened his phone screen and brought up the Messages app, and pulled up her name.

His screen was full of texts sent from her, starting with questions about his well-being, and then questions about why he wasn’t answering her, and then they just dropped off. It was as though she had decided he wasn’t worth her time anymore, which was true. 

_ Shit _ , he had treated her awful.

> **Sandor: Happy Birthday Sansa**

That seemed like a good place to start, although she likely wouldn’t receive it well. He reminded himself--Make amends, Apologize for mistakes. He decided to start with the apology.

> **Sandor: I want to apologize for the last month. I wasn’t thinking straight, and it took some conversations with EB to figure some stuff out.**

Sansa still didn’t answer, so he wrote out:

> **Sandor: Would you please have coffee with me? Name a time and I’ll be there.**

There. There was nothing else he could do. He didn’t want to corner her at her apartment--he knew he wouldn’t like it if someone did it to him. 

Now all he had left to do was wait.


	23. May 21, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you guys, kind of a long one. But I had a lot to say ;-)

Sansa didn’t answer the texts right away. After the birthday she’d had, hearing from Sandor wasn’t exactly the cherry on top.

The last couple of days had been quite nice, compared to her last month. Hearing from Arya about having dinner the day before her birthday sounded good, like something she needed to help her get out of this funk.

And dinner turned out to be nice--the club was small and dimly lit. There weren’t a lot of people to move through, no waiting a half hour for a table, and it was upscale without breaking the bank--which she appreciated, because Arya insisted on paying.

It was just her and Arya for most of it, but a man at the bar kept looking at her and, while Arya made a quick trip to the ladies room just before she left, he came over and struck up a conversation. Sansa had wanted to stay to finish her meal, and Arya had to get up early for work in the morning, so Sansa did a quick examination of the guy and his motives, and deemed him harmless. He took up Arya’s seat and they made easy conversation for the next hour.

His name was Mike and he was just in town on business, but it had been a long time since Sansa found a man interesting enough to talk to, a man who wasn’t Sandor. So she told him about living in Fairbanks, and he told her about living in Boise.

Sansa had a decent time, and she even laughed a couple of times. But when it got so late that even she had to get up in the morning for work, and he offered to walk her home, she declined. 

Sansa couldn’t help but compare him to Sandor, noting the way he stood just a couple inches taller than her whereas Sandor towered over her; or the way his shoulders looked thin and lacked muscle, unlike Sandor who was built like a bull. And his hair was fair, a dishwater blonde that was cut close to his head. He had told her he’d served in the military for a short time before becoming a civilian contractor, so she guessed that’s where the clean-cut look of him came from. 

She found herself wishing his hair was down to his shoulders, and that he had a beard, and mustache. And scars on his face.

Everything about Mike was just  _ so sweet _ . She didn’t think there was anything about Sandor that was sweet. But Mike was here, not him, and she tried to convince herself that spending some time with someone who made her smile was a good thing.

The next morning at work there was a cake and balloons, a bouquet of roses from Arya and Gendry, and a smattering of cards waiting for her from coworkers. She’d be heading over to her parents’ house afterwards for a birthday dinner. Throughout, she felt an acute sense of loss, but she didn’t let it overshadow the number of people who did want to make her day special.

At lunch, Mike, with whom she’d exchanged numbers, texted to wish her a happy birthday. It was sweet, but it wasn’t Sandor. He asked if they could get together over the weekend for lunch and she agreed.

Dinner with her family had gone well, but as she pulled into the parking lot of her building her phone chimed with bird calls. 

The texts messages were from Sandor. 

Her first reaction was inexplicable happiness, which she quickly washed away with a bucketload of righteousness. He wanted to  _ apologize _ ?! She had just spent probably the worst month of her entire life pining for him, hurting for him, and now that she had started to move her life back onto the right track, his texts felt like he was throwing a stick into her spokes. 

She came to a dead stop, one hand on the key in her ignition and one holding her phone.

She didn’t know what to say to him. She wanted to immediately decline--perhaps send him a copy of that text she’d sent him a couple years ago, about never contacting her again. But she told herself to give it some time, and that the right response would come to her.

She almost reached out to EB, but decided against it. Same with Arya. This was a decision she would have to make on her own, which was going to take some time. She put her phone away without answering and went inside.

That night in bed, as with every night for the month leading up to this one, it was Sandor she pictured as she drifted off into sleep.

It wasn’t until the next evening, Friday after work, that she texted him back. She was sitting in the parking lot at work when she took her phone out of her pocket and replied. It was her first real moment of silence for the day, and she had room to think through her responses.

> **Sansa** : We can meet for coffee.

He texted back immediately.

> **Sandor: Hello. When and where?**
> 
> **Sansa** : I just got off work. Now? College Road Coffee Shop?

She knew it was asking a lot, but she was mad, and a small part of her wanted him to feel uncomfortable in the public setting. However, she had also chosen a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that was usually only busy in the mornings.

It took him a minute to respond.

> **Sandor: On my way now**

Oh. Well, okay then. She put the car in gear and backed out of her parking spot.

When she parked at the coffee shop she panicked and almost drove away. What she was about to do suddenly came crashing down on her, and she took out her phone to text Arya.

> Sansa: Arya!!
> 
> **Arya: Sansa!!**
> 
> Sansa: Sandor texted me and wants to meet for coffee, and I'm freaking out!
> 
> **Arya: Why are u meeting him? And why are u freaking out?**
> 
> Sansa: He says he wants to apologize, and I figured I would let him. But now I'm freaking out because I don't know if I should see him.
> 
> **Arya: y not?**
> 
> Sansa: Lack of willpower?
> 
> **Arya: Well...**
> 
> **Arya: Would lack of willpower be such a bad thing?**
> 
> Sansa: What?! Weren't you just telling me how he was being an ass, and I'm quoting your words, "Fuck him"?
> 
> **Arya: yeah that was me. But I've been talking 2 Gendry and**
> 
> **Arya: nvm He says i'm not allowed to tell you anthing**
> 
> Sansa: Tell me what, Arya?
> 
> **Arya: have a good time sis! luv ya!**
> 
> Sansa: Arya 
> 
> Sansa: Arya
> 
> Sansa: Damnit Gendry let her answer me
> 
> Sansa: Gendry
> 
> Sansa: Damn both of you

Well, damn it. She obviously wasn't going to get any help from her sister. All she wanted was a pep talk, some courage over text. Right?

But she knew she was kidding herself. She was afraid of what she was going to feel when Sandor arrived. He'd been such a big figure in her life before that night, had become so important to her. And then, in the hospital when she'd realized she was in love with him, she had done nothing but imagine him waking up and them living happily ever after.

Okay, well, not quite happily ever after. She at least imagined them going back to the way they were--dating, holding hands, watching movies and having dinners. And they would try--that--again, making love, at some point in the future.

But then he had happened--whoever that was that had taken over Sandor soon after he'd woken from his bender. It had taken her quite a while to realize what was going on, but she knew now it really hadn't sunk in until the door had closed--until he had closed the door--on Gendry's truck. 

No goodbye, no see you later. 

But EB had said all the right things about Sandor--had said that Sandor loved her. She supposed she had built her hopes on that, only to have Sandor crush them beneath his massive boot.

If he had loved her, he wouldn't have treated her like that. He wouldn't have grown distant in the hospital, wouldn't have spurned her attempts to care for him with short phrases and clipped tones. 

She had thought at the time that he was just tired, or not feeling well, or that he wanted to get out of the hospital. She now knew it was because he didn't want her anymore.

And those thoughts had brought her down a dark road over the last month. Because, why else would he come to not want her except for how she had treated him that night?

But she'd never had a chance to apologize, never had a chance to try to make it right between them, and now, here they were--he was coming to apologize. 

They were meeting for  _ coffee _ , she thought, as though it was a swear word. 

No intimate dinner, no cuddling on her couch, no tinkering around his cabin, cleaning and organizing. They were meeting so he could apologize, and so she could apologize to him, although he didn't know that was going to happen. 

Where she was parked in front of the coffee shop, she faced a big plate glass window that reflected the road behind her, and she saw when his truck turned into the driveway of the strip mall where the coffee shop was housed. 

She didn't want to touch him, didn't want to get near him, so she turned her car off and climbed out. It was warm today, so she was wearing a t-shirt over her favorite light blue jeans, and she had left her hair down. She grabbed her purse and locked her car, waiting on the sidewalk under the eaves as he pulled in next to her and turned his truck off.

She thought she saw him take a deep breath before getting out, but she couldn't be sure. Though as he climbed out of his truck and stood, unfolding that large form until he was standing tall and heading her direction, she felt her heart rate speed up.

He was as handsome as ever, though his hair was forward, hiding his scars. He was wearing jeans and a flannel over a black t-shirt. His clothes appeared clean, at least, so she wondered if he was taking care of himself.

But it was the look on his face--the pain and longing that she saw underneath his polite facade, that made her turn around without greeting him and reach for the coffee shop door. She held it so he could follow her, and together they walked up to the counter.

They ordered their coffees, Sandor speaking so quietly that the woman had to ask him twice to repeat his order. It tugged at Sansa’s heartstrings, but he got through it, and paid for both of them before she could get her money out. Sansa sat them at a table for four, which was bigger than all the other two-person tables, against the window up front.

She clasped her hands together on her lap, neither of them speaking, though she felt Sandor's eyes on her as she looked pointedly out the window, examining the intricate grill design on her car. But she could smell him, and unfortunately he smelled amazing. He smelled like Sandor--of wood and earthiness, of a subtle but masculine shampoo. It brought back memories of their evening the night they made out like teenagers, and the touch of him beneath her hands, beneath her mouth--

The barista brought over the drinks and Sansa pasted on a bright smile for her, relieved to be drawn out of those thoughts. But it fell from her face once the lady walked away. This was just not the occasion to smile.

Sandor was quiet and visibly uncomfortable. He had his head bowed but just enough that he could still look at her. He angled his back towards the room, his hair falling over his face. Sansa wasn't looking at him but she knew exactly what he looked like, she could picture him clearly in her mind. She waited for him to speak, and when he did it gave her goosebumps.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Sansa.”

She wrapped her arms around her chest and rested her hands against her upper arms, willing the bumps to disappear. She hoped he hadn't seen them, but  _ damn _ \--that voice! She'd missed it, more than she wanted to admit.  _ This sucks so bad _ , she thought.

She didn't respond but she did look at him, careful to keep her face expressionless. As soon as her eyes connected with his, she wished she hadn't. 

It felt like he was even more handsome than what he was the last time she had seen him. His hair still fell to his shoulders in dark waves, looking soft enough to touch. His beard covered most of his jaw, still just as long but slightly unkempt. And his eyes--they bore into her and held emotions she chose not to analyze. He was tall even while sitting, and his hands dwarfed the coffee cup that rested between them, the same cup that looked normal within her own grasp.

She hated this; this uncertainty. They needed to get the apologies out of the way so they could say goodbye. She needed to tell Arya to never mention Sandor again. And she needed to call Mike--good, kind, ordinary Mike. It was time for a change of pace after the ridiculous month she had.

Already tired of waiting for him to speak, and anxious to not only get past the embarrassing apology she had planned, as well as anxious to just  _ leave _ , she put her coffee down, turned her gaze out the window again and started speaking.

“I'm sorry, Sandor, for what happened between us. I didn't plan on the night ending the way it did, with us…”  _ Crap _ , this was embarrassing. “...with us, you know… I didn't plan on that and it took me by surprise, and I didn't handle it well. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry for causing you grief, and for my part in what you did later that night.” 

She paused only long enough to take a sip of coffee. She wasn't looking at him, but she could see his hands hadn't moved from where they gripped his coffee cup. 

“I'm sorry I drove you to that, back to alcohol. As soon as I heard what happened, I regretted it. I regretted all of it. I wished the evening hadn't gone as it did, and… I'm just sorry.” Dismayed, she felt tears pricking her eyes, though she managed to keep them out of her voice.

“I don't know what I did to make you leave the way you did after the hospital, but I just want you to know I wish you the best, I really do.” 

She looked at him then, briefly, but long enough to see his mouth open and close like a fish. She couldn't do this, couldn't sit next to him and not touch him, couldn't be here with him and not ache for his companionship. 

_ God, how could EB have ever thought that Sandor loved me _ . 

“Goodbye, Sandor,” she said, barely swallowing back her sob as she stood, grabbing her coffee before walking towards the door. He hadn't moved as of her opening the door, and she let the tears fall when she felt outside air on her face. 

But before she reached the driver side door of her car she heard the coffee shop's door open, then she heard her name in Sandor's deep rasp, though it sounded forced, as though it pained him to say it.

“Sansa,” he said, his steps coming closer. 

Sansa shook her head and fumbled for her keys, digging around in her purse until her fingers found her keychain. She'd just put the key in the door when she felt him come up behind her.

“Sansa.” 

She thought he might mean to stop her so she paused, one hand still on the key in the door, the other hand coming up to frantically wipe away tears that wouldn't stop flowing. 

“ _ What _ , Sandor,” she hissed, preferring to sound mad than to let him hear the pain and anguish in her voice. 

Instead of turning around she stared at her hand, at the closely trimmed, buffed nail of her thumb where it rested on the key. Just one turn of her wrist and it would be unlocked, ready for her to open it and escape. 

She was confused about her anger, knowing it wasn't completely founded. But still, the part of her that had wronged him on that evening, the part that caused her delay in visiting him at the hospital, could not ignore the hours, the days she spent at his bedside, nurturing and growing her love for him. It was that love now that was choking her, and spurring her towards anger.

She was angry at him for not wanting her. That was the bottom line. And she was hurt, and sad that he didn't want her.

“You should have just said something,” she said, not waiting--again--for him to say something. Angrily, to cover up the pain, she continued, “You should have told me, instead of leaving me at the hospital to wonder if you were going to text, to call, if I was ever going to see you again.” She wiped at her eyes with the heels of both hands, and hung her head. Now it was  _ her _ hair that acted as a curtain, hiding her face from his. She didn't want him seeing her like this.

“Sansa, it's not like that,” he started, but he stopped himself. “You…” 

He sighed heavily, a quick, weighted breath that came out in a rush. 

Then in a different, softer tone he said, “Look, I'm also sorry about what happened that night. But not for the reasons you think.” His voice was deep, close, so close that it almost felt like she could feel it against her neck. But that was silly, because he was standing a couple feet away, behind her. 

“And  _ you _ left  _ me _ that night, remember?  _ You  _ walked out, leaving me to wonder what the hell had just happened.” She heard him move, and could see slightly behind her, his boots turned to the side, paused, and then turned back to her.

“But you know what, I figured it out.” 

His tone was that of disbelief. He lowered his voice before he went on, leaning closer so she could hear his voice closer to her ear. 

“I know you were a virgin, Sansa. I mean, I know  _ now _ , I knew as soon as we were  _ done _ . Christ's sakes, Sansa…” 

His voice was spiralling down into despair **,** his composure slipping. She could hear it in the cracking of his voice. 

“Why didn't you  _ tell _ me?! I never would have-- I mean--  _ fuck,  _ you were more important to me than what we allowed to happen that night, and… I'm  _ so _ sorry, Sansa, that you lost that part of you. Had I known…”

He didn't even finish his sentence. She heard the sadness in his voice and it caused her to pause, made her tears stop in their tracks. She didn't turn when she spoke, but she had a question now.

“Then why did you… leave me?… outside the hospital?” 

No, she wanted to see his face when he answered her. She turned, eyes that she was sure were red-rimmed, trained in him. 

“Why haven't you contacted me?” 

She hiccuped, her brows drawing together in confusion as she shook her head. 

“A month, Sandor. You let me wonder for a month,” her voice was raising but she couldn't help it. “You made me cry over you for a whole God damned month! And now you want to apologize?!  _ Why _ , Sandor? Why do that to me and then show up here today--why show up at all? I feel like you're stringing me along, and I'm stupid and gullible enough to be here.” The tears were coming again, but she was powerless to stop them. “ _ Why _ ?!” she finished, as she crossed her arms over her chest.

He had remained silent during her tirade, her jagged questioning, but he looked lost, like a lost puppy, not sure where next to put his paw. His scars dragged down the corner of his eye, his other eye so dark and deep, both of them that unfathomable gray. And his lower lip--showing from underneath his mustache, it made her close her eyes as memories of suckling it and licking at it assailed her at this most inconvenient time.

She returned her gaze to his, but she could see he'd seen where her eyes had been, and life flared in his own before he responded to her accusations. 

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he leaned down into her, ever so slightly. She got the impression he  _ really _ wanted her to hear what he was about to say.

“I left because I couldn't stand the thought of hurting you,” he said, his voice deceptively menacing as he took a small step closer to her. She could feel the presence of his body acutely, and it was scrambling her brain. 

His eyes were intense as he growled, “I pulled away from you that night feeling like the worst kind of person, and when you wouldn't talk to me, and I watched you drive away, you made me feel like… like I had hurt you in the worst way possible.” 

He looked away, shaking his head at the memory before returning his gaze to her. 

“I saw the blood, Sansa. And when you walked out… no, when we  _ made love _ ,” he emphasized the words, “because we can stop calling it  _ ‘that _ ,’ I realized then I had taken something from you that I had no right to take. Not only did I commit the unforgivable, but I'd done it to you, Sansa, the woman I  _ love _ .” 

He coughed with another shake of his head, more hair falling over his face. He left her no time to ponder his words. He turned and walked a few steps away, hands slipping into his hair on either side of his head before they dropped again as he rounded back on her. He stepped into her space, and she took a step back, coming up against the side of her car.

“Sansa, I haven't been with many women.” 

She gulped at that, incredibly unsure of where he was going with this. 

“But I know, I'm  _ positive _ , that had I known you had never been with a man before, I would have taken my time.” He laughed then, but there was no real humor in it. “I wouldn't have rutted with you like a wild animal. I would have gone slow,” he took a step towards her, though there was no room for her to back up. “I would have seduced you, and touched you, and spent plenty of time making both you and I sure that you were ready.” She felt he was holding back, that there was much more he wanted to say but didn't. 

Then he leaned down, his mouth close to hers as his face softened, the anger and disquiet melting away at their closeness. 

His voice came out then, sad and anguished again, as he said, “I never…” He shook his head, the barest whisper of hair touching her own where it rested against her chest, “never,  _ never _ would have hurt you.”

Sansa swallowed again.

His words were confusing her, mixing up her thoughts until she didn’t know which way was up and what was down. 

Wait--had he said he loved her?  _ Yes _ , he did! 

But did that mean he wanted her? No, he hadn’t said anything about continuing their relationship, or picking up where they left off. He wasn’t saying anything about leaving together, or what was next… Would that be up to her?

As he finished speaking he pulled away, their faces just a foot apart as she tried to keep her full composure. But it was hard with him standing over her like that, with her back pressed against the door of her car. 

She felt the pull of him, the want inside her to wrap herself around him and to draw comfort from him. It was different than sexual desire, which she also felt, admittedly. But the lure of leaning on him and relying on him was a tangible force, and until she had the answers she needed, she knew it was unwise to act on them, let alone contemplate them.

She swallowed and turned her head away from him, a clear enough sign that he stepped back, far enough to lean against the passenger side door of his own truck. He stood there, hands in his pockets, and stared at her until she brought her eyes back to his.

When she took a breath to speak, it was a trembling one, as though at any moment she could break into devastating sobs. She reined it in, held onto her emotions long enough to open her mouth to ask him exactly what it is he wanted from her, from  _ this _ , whatever this situation between them was. But he somehow managed to speak first, drawing her up short at his words.

“Sansa, what do you want?” Her mouth fell open slightly at his words--he must have been thinking the same thing she was. She didn’t smile, but she shook her head and told him as much.

“I was going to ask you want  _ you _ wanted.” 

Then they stood there, her with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, him with his hands in his pockets, a veritable stalemate between them. Sansa was afraid to put to voice any of her thoughts, without knowing what it was he wanted, where he wanted to go with this. 

A few people had looked at them as they passed, knowing they looked like a couple having a spat, but she tried to see Sandor as anyone else would see him--tall and dark, scarred and dangerous. He was looking at her in a way that said he had all night--that they could stand there until the cows came home if it meant resolving the issues between them.

But did she need that time? Did she need to take home this knowledge and mull it over? Speak to her mom? Or to Arya?  _ Ha _ , she thought,  _ definitely not her. She would advise me to go for it, the reckless brat _ . 

And she thought of telling Sandor to wait while she stepped inside her car, telling him she’d like to “phone home” and get help with her answer. 

She pushed those thoughts from her mind, shaking her head again. She still couldn’t believe they were doing this, having this conversation. Then, she took a deep breath and just decided--again--to be honest.

“None of this would be happening if we had been more responsible that night, and if I hadn’t reacted so horribly to… making love. To what happened. So…” 

She looked away, down at his shoes, over across the street, up at the sky and then back to his face. His brow was up, anxiously waiting for her to finish her thoughts. 

“So… I am willing…” 

She spoke slowly, attempting to gauge his reaction to her words, to gauge  _ her _ reaction to her words, but all she felt was her heart speeding up, her palms going sweaty, and the tiny bud of hope she was uncovering deep down, inside her. 

“I’m willing,” she said again, “To start over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say again how much I appreciate all of you. The readers, the comments, the kudos and bookmarks - all of it. This story has ballooned into an entity unto itself, with many thanks going to LadyCleganeofTheNorth for her guidance along the way. 
> 
> You are all awesome <3


	24. May 22, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH The FLUFF!! It's BURNING my EYES!!! <3
> 
> I. Stinking. Love. This. Chapter.

Sandor didn’t move at her words,  _ I’m willing… to start over _ . The only thing on him moving was the tips of his hair, gently lifting and falling against the shoulder of his flannel as a breeze swirled around them between their vehicles. 

He looked at her intently, staring into her eyes as though he was trying to decide how truthful she was being.

Then he cleared his throat, and looked away suddenly, making Sansa’s heart drop. The bud of hope shrivelled, and her arms fell from where she’d had them crossed over her chest.

But at the movement of her arms he quickly turned back to her and drew himself up to full height.

“Sansa,” he said, his words careful. She closed her eyes and took another deep, fortifying breath, before opening them again and looking up into his face. He had stepped closer, just barely, but it was noticeable. “I don’t want to start over,” he said seriously, the expression on his face not changing. 

Sansa felt the tears come to her eyes again and she gave the barest of nods.  _ I will not fall apart _ , she coached herself silently.  _ I will not fall apart _ .

But he took another step closer, and he said again, “I don’t want to start over,” and closer again, “Because I want to pick up where we left off.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, her mind suddenly full of a thousand impressions, a thousand thoughts all clashing together at once. 

He wants to get back together?

He doesn’t want to leave?

He wants to pick up where we left off?

_ God _ , he smells good.

Sandor was so close now, their bodies just a couple feet apart. Close enough to touch. But she couldn’t completely push away the hurt she had felt, and the pain she’d endured over the last month. It had consumed her life to the point where she wondered if she was going to come out the other side a completely different person.

But then she remembered, he had likely felt the Same. Exact. Thing. The night they had made love and she had left  _ him _ .

So she voiced the first thought that came to mind, shoving away thoughts of uncertainty as she focused on one thing he had said.

“EB told me you loved me,” she whispered, arms remaining at her side as he stepped into her personal space. 

Sandor himself had said it a moment ago, but Sansa wanted him to know she’d known--that she had known _how_ _long_ he’d loved her, because of that long ago conversation with his mentor. 

Sandor nodded in agreement, and her heart warmed as she tilted her head back.

“It’s true, though he’s a meddling old man.” And  _ there _ , there was a small smile, and she felt like he had just granted her the most precious gift she’d ever received. She allowed a slight smile to show on her face, hesitant even now, even though his hands came up to rest on the caps of her shoulders, his thumbs burning through her shirt as they rubbed in small circles. It was the first contact they’d had in over a month, and it made her shiver.

“He seems very wise,” she whispered, thinking of something else EB had said. 

Sandor nodded slowly, his gaze roaming over her face now. She watched as he looked at her eyes, her forehead, her eyebrows, cheeks, nose,  _ mouth _ .

“He said,” she whispered, wetting her lower lip in nervousness as he stared at it, “that I am in love with you, too.”

This brought his eyes back up to hers, though nothing else on him moved. That was, until his hands slid upwards, over the tops of her shoulders to cup her neck, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck.

Sansa's breath caught, the sensation of his calloused hands on the sensitive skin of her neck making her feel like her heart was going to beat out of her chest.

“And do you?” The question hung between them, a rope bridge that just had to be crossed for Sansa to reach her destination.

She brought her hands up to grasp his forearms, feeling the muscles beneath the thin fabric of the flannel shirt. She squeezed her fingers around the shape of his arms, and felt the heat radiating from him, even in the warmth of the summer evening. 

When Sansa looked into his eyes she saw hope mirrored in them, the same hope she felt now blooming in her chest. She drew the corner of her lip under her teeth, bashfully holding back the smile that threatened to take over her face, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

But Sandor saw it, and instead of kissing her as she thought he might, he leaned his forehead down against hers and closed his eyes. Their breath mingled in the small space between them, and he chuckled, a short, sandpaper laugh.

“ _ Wise _ , old man,” he corrected, his affection for EB showing in his voice. 

But Sansa wasn’t paying attention, as she was already tilting her face to capture his mouth with hers, the scratchiness of his mustache and beard against her skin feeling like  _ coming home _ .

She brushed her lips against his and waited for him to accept her invitation, and then they were melding together, her arms sliding up around his neck, his gliding down to encircle her waist, and then there was no more space left between them as they stood kissing between their vehicles. Sandor tasted of coffee and man and love, and Sansa was tasting wetness on their lips before she realized it was her tears.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to Sandor between kisses, “For hurting you.” 

He pulled away briefly.

“I am, too, Sansa,” he said, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple, before saying into the soft skin on her forehead, “I’m so damned sorry. I never want to hurt you like that, like any of it, ever again.” 

He brought his lips to the tip of her nose, and then kissed away the tears that were on her cheeks before returning to her mouth, pouring his heart out into the movement of his lips.

“I missed you,” were her next words, and she felt Sandor tear his mouth away from hers to crush her against his chest. 

She pressed her cheek against it and squeezed him with her arms, rubbing at his back, feeling the breadth of him, the warmth of him underneath her hands. In that moment it felt like they really were picking up where they had left off, and that the rift between them was fading into memory like a bad dream. 

“I missed you so much, and I worried for you, and I loved you through it all, Sandor. Please,” she begged in a whisper, tears coming fresh as he held her to him, “Please don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t, Sansa, I won’t. I promise,” he said into her hair, and she thought she heard tears in his voice. 

She pulled away, pushing against his chest until she could lean back and see that he did indeed have tears on his cheeks.

There was no more room for sadness then, as she brought her thumbs up to wipe them away and smile at him, a full smile that he returned between kisses and murmurings of love.

It was the sweetest moment she’d ever experienced. 

She held onto him as though her life depended on it, as though if she let him go, if there was no part of their bodies that was touching, he might slip away from her and be lost forever.

Of course, she had to let go eventually, but not until he agreed to come to her place to reheat their coffees and watch some TV. But when they parted, kissing one last time before they both got into their vehicles, she safely kept tabs on his truck the whole way home in her rearview mirror, feeling at once possessive over this big man in her mirror, whose eyes were watching her intently at the stop light, overwhelmed at the love she felt for him, and fiercely relieved at the turn for the better her life had suddenly taken.

When they pulled into her parking lot and he parked in the visitor spot just a few spaces down from her, watching his long strides carry him quickly over to where she stood was a balm to her soul, knowing that finally, he was hers again. It was surreal, but she wasn’t going to question it. Not now, not ever.

His large hand wrapped around hers, and together they walked up to the landing to the front door, his smile lighting up her soul like a floodlight.

Much later, when they had finally parted at her door after a long, sexy, unhurried kiss, Sansa took her phone out and plopped back onto the couch, still warm where he had been sitting for much of the evening. There was still an indent on the cushions beside her where she had stayed glued to his side, unwilling to part from his warmth and his presence for longer than to refill their drinks.

It was time to update Arya, and to figure out what it was Gendry had been talking about that Arya wasn’t supposed to say.

> Sansa: Hey
> 
> **Arya: Hey whoa ur not texting from bed are u**
> 
> **Arya: cuz that would b wierd**
> 
> Sansa: No, I’m not texting from bed you goober
> 
> Sansa: Not that you haven’t texted ME from bed 
> 
> **Arya: I plead the 5th**
> 
> Sansa: Ugh, you’re supposed to deny that. I don’t need to be thinking about my little sister in that context.
> 
> **Arya: well then Im pleading the 5th RIGHT NOW**
> 
> Sansa: Goodnight Arya 
> 
> **Arya: im kidding im kidding. I told him 2 stop. wuts up lovergirl?**
> 
> Sansa: You’re incorrigible
> 
> **Arya: so ive been told >:-)**
> 
> **Arya: how did ur meet n greet go with Lurch?**
> 
> Sansa: Arya! That’s a horrible nickname.
> 
> **Arya: well I have to call him something. Gendry calls him boss**
> 
> **Arya: stretch? treetop? jolly green giant?**
> 
> Sansa: Arya
> 
> **Arya: got it. king kong clegane**
> 
> Sansa: Hey, how about Sandor, hmm? Sandor sounds good. I think it fits him. You know, BECAUSE THAT’S HIS NAME.
> 
> **Arya: i know i know. How'd it go?**

_ Play it cool _ , Sansa reminded herself, despite really wanting to shout it from the rooftop.

> Sansa: We talked, and we are back together.
> 
> **Arya: WOOHOOO!!!!!!!!**
> 
> Sansa: I don’t think you used enough exclamation points lol
> 
> **Arya: !!!!!!!!!**
> 
> **Arya: that good, huh?**
> 
> Sansa: We discussed what happened and both feel that we should give this another chance.
> 
> **Arya: because, love?**

Sansa couldn't help but smile. Her young, irritating, maddeningly annoying sister was quite perceptive.

> Sansa: Is Gendry there?
> 
> **Arya: oh yeah**
> 
> Sansa: Well, I guess it’s okay - yes, because, love.
> 
> **Arya: hes happy for you both**
> 
> **Arya: and so am i**
> 
> Sansa: Thank you Arya, for everything.
> 
> Sansa: And you too, Gendry <3
> 
> **Arya: hey send your own man hearts lol**
> 
> Sansa: I don't think Sandor is a heart-texting kind of guy lol
> 
> **Arya: try anyway. Gendry is now busy ;-)**
> 
> Sansa: Ugh, Arya. Give the man a break.
> 
> **Arya: i never force him :-D**
> 
> **Arya: sometimes i tie him up, tho**
> 
> Sansa: GOODNIGHT
> 
> **Arya: lol goodnight sis**

Sansa sat on the couch for a while, lost in thought, before finally getting ready for bed. Once there, she set her phone down on the nightstand and switched off her light.

Pushing all thoughts of her little sister from her mind, she instead recalled the events of today, and the feelings that had coursed through her at seeing Sandor again after so long.

All this time since he’d left her standing outside the hospital, he had been loving her and she had been loving him. What a mess they’d made, and what an enormous waste of the last month. When they could have been spending their time growing closer and getting reaquainted, they had instead been stewing in pain and hurt and broken hearts.  _ What fools we are _ . 

She was determined to never again be so stupid, nor to waste a moment with Sandor. So she reached for her phone and, bringing up his name on the Messages app, began to type.

> Sansa: Are you still up?

His reply was almost immediate.

> **Sandor: I am. Everything okay?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes.

She let the phone rest on her chest as she thought of what to type. Despite their cozy evening and  _ that kiss _ , she still felt nervous. Not that at any moment one of them might royally screw up--no, it was more like, where do they go now?

He said he wanted to pick up where they left off, so where exactly was that? Certainly not their evening together where she had lost her virginity and he'd drunk himself nearly into a coma. 

Nope.  _ Not going back there _ , she thought. The physical would come in time, of course, as they had both decided to take things slow now that they had had a glimpse of what rushing could do to a relationship. 

So what came before that? 

_ Ah. Flirting,  _ she remembered. They had been cleaning, laughing, joking, flirting. She smiled.

She knew how to flirt in texts. She'd dated enough guys to be good at that!

But did Sandor? Sansa chuckled out loud. Most assuredly  _ not _ . So she would ease him into it, since he'd already proven himself to be amenable to texting.

> Sansa: I miss you.

That was good. Not very forward, but not very shy, either.

It took him a moment to reply.

> **Sandor: I miss you too. What are you doing?**
> 
> Sansa: I'm in bed. Did you have a good time tonight?
> 
> **Sandor: Of course. I spent time with you, how could that NOT be a good time.**
> 
> Sansa: So 
> 
> **Sandor: So**
> 
> Sansa: I really missed you. A lot.
> 
> **Sandor: I really missed you, too. EB is going to be happy.**
> 
> Sansa: Yeah? Why? lol
> 
> **Sandor: Apparently I have been grumpy.**

Sansa smiled, easily able to picture what Sandor could be like when grumpy.

> Sansa: He's nice. I like him.
> 
> **Sandor: He likes you, too. Said you slept at the hospital and only left to work.**
> 
> **Sandor: Is that true?**

She paused before answering. They were entering shady territory if that's what he wanted to talk about. It wasn't that speaking of their temporary rift was out of the question; but that it still hurt, knowing a rift had ever happened. She never wanted to relive that part of their lives.

> Sansa: It’s true.
> 
> **Sandor: You stayed because you love me?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes, because I love you. After getting over my mortification of how I had treated you, I knew there was nowhere else I could be while you were sick.
> 
> **Sandor: That means a lot to me, Sansa.**
> 
> **Sandor: And I love you, too.**

Sansa felt herself flush.

> Sansa: What else did EB say?
> 
> **Sandor: Are you sure you want to know?**
> 
> Sansa: Uh oh. Is it bad?
> 
> **Sandor: It made me angrier than I've been in a long time.**
> 
> Sansa: Does it make you angry now?
> 
> **Sandor: You are mine again, and you love me. So… only a little bit.**

She chuckled again, though curiosity won out over the fear of bringing everything to light. They should never be afraid to talk about what went on between them.

> Sansa: I AM yours, and I DO love you, so you can tell me.
> 
> **Sandor: EB said you met someone.**
> 
> Sansa: I did
> 
> **Sandor: I was angry at him, this other guy**
> 
> Sansa: Nothing ever happened between us, Sandor. You have my word on that.
> 
> **Sandor: I was and am not in a position to have an opinion about it.**

That sounded like a very carefully worded statement, which made Sansa smile. 

> Sansa: I understand. But you did have an opinion about it, since you said yourself that it made you angry. 
> 
> **Sandor: True, I did say that.**
> 
> **Sandor: Part of me was angry that I had put us in a position where you felt you needed to find someone else. I'm so sorry, Sansa.**
> 
> Sansa: In our case, it took two. I'm sorry as well. At least we now know to talk through things. 
> 
> Sansa: And you never had anything to worry about, btw.
> 
> **Sandor: I find that hard to believe.**
> 
> Sansa: Why?
> 
> **Sandor: You're amazing. Kind and funny and sexy as hell. I was a fool to walk away from you.**
> 
> Sansa: And I, you. It took two, remember?
> 
> **Sandor: I know, but it still irks me.**
> 
> Sansa: Like I said, you had nothing to worry about.

Time to step up her flirting game. Sansa had had enough of this serious talk.

> **Sandor: Why is that?**
> 
> Sansa: He didn't have long black hair.
> 
> Sansa: Or hands that could almost span my waist.
> 
> Sansa: Or lips I want to kiss.
> 
> Sansa: Or a beard. Gotta have a beard.
> 
> Sansa: Nor scars. What is a man without scars…
> 
> Sansa: Lips. Did I mention lips I want to kiss?
> 
> **Sandor: You're in bed and this is what you're thinking about?**
> 
> Sansa: Yes.
> 
> **Sandor: You're wandering into dangerous territory, Sansa.**
> 
> Sansa: What do you want to do tomorrow? Dinner and Antiques Roadshow?
> 
> **Sandor: Oh no. I'm not letting you off that easily.**
> 
> Sansa: Why? What are YOU thinking about?
> 
> **Sandor: Well, now I'm thinking about my hands on your waist while kissing you.**
> 
> Sansa: You're right. This is dangerous territory.
> 
> **Sandor: Kissing your neck**
> 
> Sansa: It's late
> 
> **Sandor: Tasting your skin there, where your shoulder meets your neck**
> 
> Sansa: We both have to work in the morning.
> 
> **Sandor: Just kisses. Fully clothed. That's tame, right?**
> 
> Sansa: I'll never get to sleep now.
> 
> **Sandor: Me neither.**
> 
> Sansa: Hey Sandor
> 
> **Sandor: Yes Sansa?**
> 
> Sansa: I love you <3
> 
> **Sandor: I love you, too <3**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaand You're Welcome <3
> 
> lol


	25. June 3, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor <3 Be still my heart, he loves her so much.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!

It was nearly two weeks later when Sandor finally accepted an invitation to go to a barbecue at Sansa’s parents’ house. They lived up in the hills north of the city, in a large though still modest two story cabin overlooking the river valley. Sansa had told him that on a clear day you could see the mountains, and he wasn’t disappointed when they drove into the driveway.

He put the truck in neutral, pushed the parking brake and turned it off, dropping the keys onto the seat between his legs. Sansa’s hand rested on his knee, and he covered it now with his left as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She had taken to sitting in the middle whenever they drove together, which wasn’t often, but he liked it all the same. 

He liked her hand on his leg even more, but that he kept to himself.

They hadn’t moved past the snuggling stage of their relationship, though he did like to take liberties with her greeting kisses and her goodbye kisses. Plus the texting had gotten pretty heated a couple times, though it never progressed further than hints and innuendos. He wasn’t going to push her, and he was never going to give her reason to think that he was moving too fast. So in this, as he had told her in the  _ new _ beginning of their relationship, he was giving her all the control. They hadn’t spoken of it since, and though he did wonder when she was going to allow them to go to the next level, he was perfectly content with what they had.

And what they had was indeed very special. He never would have expected to find someone like Sansa--someone kind and special, who loved him for him, who was patient with his social anxiety, and understanding of his desire to spend most of his time at home.

To find someone like her this late in life--at thirty-seven--was a gift he intended to never screw up.

She was simply amazing. They laughed together, loved together, and spent so much time together that it was becoming hard leaving her every night. There was now never a day when he didn’t see her, and he was okay with that. She also appeared to like it, though at some point he was going to have to get back to regular work hours. Due to his zealous work ethic while they had spent that month apart he had a good supply of knives built up to supplement him through the summer, but come fall it would be back to being a full-time job.

Sansa had finally asked him to give her a full tour of his workshop, and he had done so with pride. She seemed to enjoy his explanations and descriptions, and was impressed with the amount of machinery he had for his one, small knife store. But as he explained it--how every grinder had a purpose, every buffer a designated task--she’d listened with rapt attention and love in her eyes. It was enough for a man to go insane with love.

Sandor still went to his Thursday night recovery meetings, and had been happy to tell all the men that he and Sansa were back together, permanently. There had been many back slappings a week ago, and last night there were many questions about how it was going, if she was happy, and if Sandor was happy. 

No one was more happy for him than EB, who, in his calm-as-ever voice, told Sandor, “It’s about damned time, son.” Then later, in private, EB had given him his first adult man-to-man hug, and it had brought quickly wiped-away tears to Sandor’s eyes.

Tonight, though, was going to be something else. Sandor was about to meet Sansa’s family for the first time. Well, some of them, at least. He knew Bran was visiting a friend in California while he was out of college for the summer, and Rickon was away somewhere at a military youth camp for troubled youth. Sansa’s cousin Jon, who lived with the family when he was growing up, was working the closing shift at his computer shop and wouldn’t be able to make it. But Arya would be there with Gendry--thank god there would be someone he knew-- and Robb would be there with his wife and Sansa’s new niece, Sophie. 

Sandor still had not actually met Arya, Catelyn, or Ned Stark, Sansa’s parents, despite the fact that they had already "met" him in the hospital, while he was unconscious. He had merely waved a hand at Sansa when she’d later apologized for bringing them into the room, explaining that he knew she needed someone to lean on. It wasn’t the most dignified way for her parents to meet their daughter’s boyfriend, but Sansa had done what she needed to do, and he would not fault her for it.

He felt her squeeze his leg now, and looked down at her. Sansa was smiling up at him encouragingly, and he leaned down to press a quick kiss to her lips. But she looked so damned sexy, her halter top exposing way more skin of her back than he was used to seeing, and what started as a quick kiss turned into him drawing comfort from her, and it deepened until he was untangling his fingers from her hair and she was smoothing the now-wrinkled fabric of his black t-shirt. 

Her smile was gorgeous. Sometimes he almost wondered if she tortured him on purpose, making him aroused and then backing off, though he knew it wasn’t true. 

She was just… Sansa. And she loved him, and she liked to touch him and kiss him, and she was slowly easing back into the physical aspect of their relationship. 

_ Take it slow _ , he would say in his mind, over, and over, and over. 

Then she would do that thing where she bashfully bit her lower lip while looking at his mouth, and he would just groan and look away as she chuckled to his back.

As his eyes roamed over the space in front of him, he saw a young woman standing at the corner of the garage on the paved driveway, staring at them with a look of disgust on her face.

Sansa followed his gaze and laughed again, before leaning over him to yell out the window.

“Voyeur!” 

The woman rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest as Gendry walked up behind her from behind the garage, wrapping his arms around her slight frame from behind. 

_ Ah, so this is Arya _ .

“Get a room!” Arya called back, though now she smiled, and when he looked at Sansa she was blushing furiously. She was  _ beautiful _ .

He watched as Gendry clamped a hand over Arya’s mouth and she elbowed him, but she remained where she stood. It occurred to him that she was waiting for him and Sansa to get out of the truck, so he used the hand crank to roll up the window and looked back at Sansa.

“Are you ready?” she asked, reaching out to slide her fingers into his. 

Sandor took a deep breath, looking into her eyes as he brought a hand up to brush her hair back and behind her ear. 

“No,” he grumbled, though he smiled because he knew he sounded like a grumpy child. 

Sansa chuckled and brought his hand to her mouth to kiss the back, holding their hands palm to palm as she placed the lingering kiss against his skin. 

Then she assured him, “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?” 

He took comfort knowing she understood, and he nodded before swiftly kissing her lips and opening his door.

He slid out and turned to help her come out the driver’s side door. As Sansa slid down and her feet landed in front of his, that voice came from the side of the garage again, “Holy  _ fuck _ , you’re even bigger when you’re not in a hospital bed!”

He didn’t turn, just looked at Sansa as she smiled sheepishly up to him. 

“I  _ did _ warn you about her,” she reminded him. And it was true--she had. “Ignore most of what Arya says,” she’d told him on the way over. “No one has been able to shut her up since she was a toddler.” 

Sansa took his hand now and shut the door of his truck, and together they walked to where Gendry and Arya were standing. 

He shook Gendry’s hand, and Sansa smiled, saying, “Gendry, it’s good to see you again.” Then she turned to Arya and smiled, though Sandor thought perhaps it was too sticky-sweet of a smile as she offered, “Arya? Meet Sandor. Sandor? Arya.” 

To his surprise, when Arya shook his hand she tried to  _ squeeze _ it, like some guy giving a show of machismo. It was so ridiculous that Sandor actually laughed, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be hiding his scars, self-conscious in public, and afraid of this tiny little slip of a thing. 

So he squeezed back, though not hard, but enough for Gendry to see what was going on. 

The younger man put his hand on both their wrists and yanked them apart, but not before Arya narrowed her eyes up at Sandor.

“Well played, Sandor,” she conceded.

There was a challenge there, and Sandor didn’t know if he was up to the task.

As Gendry led Arya away by the wrist, Sansa looked up at him, a look of incredulity on her face. 

“What was that about?!” she hissed, though there was a smile in her words. Sandor shrugged, not quite sure himself.

“I get the impression that she doesn’t like me,” he said, his brow furrowed as he looked at Sansa. They were just about to hit the back yard when Sansa’s laughter brought him up short. She looked at him and grinned.

“She never acts like  _ that _ . Sandor, I think she  _ likes _ you.” 

He just rolled his eyes as she turned to pull him onto the lawn.

Introductions between Sandor and Sansa’s parents went well. Ned was cautious though friendly, and Catelyn looked at him as though, if he had a secret, she knew it. They were both kind and courteous, welcoming him to their small gathering and apologizing for Robb’s tardiness.

“Sophie had vaccinations yesterday so she didn’t sleep well, and Jeyne called to say she’d be foisting Sophie off on anyone willing to hold her today because she desperately wants a break.” Sandor had watched Sansa laugh at that, and silently hoped he wouldn’t be seen as willing arms.

The last of the food was being put on the table when Catelyn asked Arya and Sansa if they would help her in the kitchen for a few minutes, and Gendry followed Arya like a dutiful puppy, leaving just Ned and Sandor on the patio, both of them sitting on padded metal chairs to the side of the barbeque, iced tea glasses on the small table between them. Sandor watched Sansa follow the group inside the house, questioning for a moment why she was leaving him alone, but she turned to give him a small wave, her knee-length skirt swishing around her legs. She looked gorgeous, as always.

Sandor and Ned were silent for a moment, both listening to the sounds of girlish chatter coming from the open window of the kitchen, before Ned took a long drink of his tea and turning to Sandor.

“So, Sandor,” he said, drawing Sandor’s attention. “I feel the need to ask you--and I’m not trying to embarrass you, but I feel like I should know--what your intentions are.”

If Sandor had been drinking tea he was sure it would have gone up his nose.

“My intentions?” he repeated. Ned nodded, his chin-length hair moving with his head. 

“From what I’ve heard, you are a very nice man. Older than I would have chosen for my daughter,” he added, and then he smiled, “But then it has been pointed out to me that the age difference between you and Sansa is only one year more than that of Catelyn and I.” 

He set the glass down and wiped the condensation away on his thigh, then stared at the spot. Sandor could tell the man wasn’t done talking, and Sansa had warned him of this. Ned was nothing if not thorough, though sometimes it took him a minute to compile his thoughts.

“My point is,” Ned said carefully, “That you two had one disagreement--your first, I believe--and you did not take it well.” 

He was alluding to the hospital visit, to Sandor’s binge, he knew, so Sandor nodded. If he was a father, he knew he’d likely have the same concerns. 

Ned continued, “I know you can’t be one-hundred-percent sure, but I would like your word that you will come to me if this ever happens again.”

Sandor’s gaze shot up to Ned’s, who was looking at him intently. There was no guile, no deception in Ned’s eyes, though his words spoke of a respect for the human condition that Sandor had not anticipated hearing.

“You want me to come to you if Sansa and I ever argue?”

Ned smiled gently, briefly. “Well, no. What I mean is, if you ever feel like turning to alcohol, please come to see me. I think you’re a fairly level-headed man, Sandor, and based on what I’ve heard from Sansa, you’re beyond needing to use alcohol as a crutch.” 

Sandor looked away at that, uncomfortable that Ned was talking with such familiarity, and yet puzzled that that familiarity would be coming from someone who so dearly loved Sansa that it felt… welcomed.

Sandor cleared his throat and looked back at Ned. “I will, sir,” and he knew it wasn’t a lie. If he and Sansa ever argued again, and if alcohol ever became an option, which he knew based on his studies of recovery that  _ once an addict, always an addict _ , he could indeed feel safe in coming to talk to Ned Stark about it. 

And so he nodded, and when Ned returned the nod and held out his hand to shake, Sandor gladly returned it.

Again, Sandor cleared his throat before saying, “Thank you, sir.”

“Ned, please. Call me Ned,” he said. Then Ned himself coughed and cleared his throat. “But tell me, what  _ are _ your intentions?”

Sandor looked away, thinking of how to word the way he felt for Sansa. It wasn’t too hard, because his feelings were apparently a step away from being on his sleeve.

“I intend to never hurt her again, sir--Ned.” He watched as his fingers fiddled with a fold in the denim of his jeans and said, “I don’t ever want to lose her again.” 

At this he looked up at Ned, who was watching his face. 

“I never want to let her down. I’m going to do everything possible to make her happy.”

Ned looked at Sandor for a moment, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before a smile spread across his face.

“Good, good,” was his reply, smiling as the ladies filed back onto the patio, followed by Gendry who was weighted down by an enormous tray of barbecue ribs ready for the grill.

Sansa came back to sit by him, and he just smiled at her when she quietly asked if everything was okay. Then she squeezed his hand, promising to not be dragged away by her mother again for the duration of their stay. He realized she must have said something to her mom while she was inside, and it warmed his heart that she would have done that for him.

The six of them were just sitting down to eat with their plates at the patio table when they heard another vehicle drive in. It wasn’t long before a tall, brown-haired man walked around the corner of the building carrying an empty car seat and an enormous diaper bag. Sansa immediately got up to give him a hug, and brought him over to where Sandor was standing to make introductions.

Robb must not have had the family talk about Sandor, because he instantly acted suspicious. His handshake was firm and short, his smile never reached his eyes, and the way he looked Sandor over from the top of his head to his boots made Sandor want to walk away. 

But Sansa was there, slipping her hand into his and wrapping her arm around his bicep, curled into his side and smiling up adoringly at her big brother. The body language Sansa displayed brooked no argument, and Robb lightened a bit. There was no room for small talk because as soon as Sansa steered Sandor towards the table, he’d no sooner sat down at the farthest end with Sansa’s plate to his left, when another petite woman rounded the corner and a host of welcomes rent the air.

Suddenly the woman’s finger came up and silence fell over the patio as she shushed them all, motioning to the silent baby she cradled in her arms.

“My god,  _ please _ don’t wake her up!” she whispered loudly, though she was quietly laughing as she did so. 

Sansa immediately went over to say hello to--this must be Jeyne, Robb’s wife--and before he knew it, Sansa was walking back towards Sandor cradling a tiny bundle of pink in her arms. 

Children. Children had always made Sandor uncomfortable. He had suffered through trick-or-treating last year only with Sansa’s costume advice. But otherwise, he avoided them in public. Kids tended to scream or cry when they saw him, or worse--they pointed and  _ loudly _ asked their parents  _ What happened to that man’s face?  _ And now Sansa was holding one of them.

Sandor was sure the baby would take one look at him and start to cry so he kept his eyes averted as Sansa shushed and cooed beside him on the other side of the corner of the table. He could sense that she had her chair turned slightly towards him, but as Robb and Jeyne sat on the other end of the table nearer to Catelyn and Ned, the sounds of people eating dinner brought Sandor back to the present.

Gendry had sat to his right with Arya beside him, and when the two weren’t head-to-head in conversation, Gendry was striking up conversation with Sandor about the shop.

He was having a decent time being in public right now, he had to admit, though even he knew a private barbecue wasn’t exactly Times Square. But still--he had never met these people. Of the seven--no, eight, including baby Sophie--other people who were sitting at the table, Sandor had met two of them. The other seven were all possible stares, probable sneers, and one child ready to cry and make him feel like a monster.

He barely managed to keep his anxiety at bay with Gendry’s help, and finally from a couple thoughtful questions from Arya about knife making. 

He only detected a few glimpses from Arya at his scars before she seemed to forget them altogether, which was a nicer reaction than he’d gotten in a long time. He was thinking about it as he took a bite from a rib when he heard some scratching to his left.

Sansa was attempting to speak with Robb who had sat to her left, while trying to pry meat off the bone on her rib one-handed with a fork. Sandor took his own fork and knife, and, ignoring the pink ball of baby on her lap, proceeded to cut all the meat off the two ribs she had on her plate. 

Sansa looked up at him with a smile that could have lit a room, and she thanked him. To his surprise, she leaned into him and it seemed only natural to lean towards her and give her a small peck on the mouth. 

The look she sent him was so full of sappy love that he just stared at her, smiling, for a moment before turning back to his plate.

His brain registered the lack of sound coming from the table and he glanced up, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, only to see everyone staring at him and Sansa. It was only a heartbeat of awkwardness before they all went back to talking or eating or whatever it was they were doing, but it was enough to unnerve Sandor. 

From then on he could feel them, as though they were taking turns, glancing at the enigma who sat at the end of their table.


	26. June 3, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHGHGJSDHGLKJHSOIY!!!
> 
> I just love this. This chapter. OMG, the feels. I just can't handle it. Did I already say I love it?

Gendry kept up conversation throughout dinner and for that, Sandor was thankful. Even to Arya, who filled absolutely any lull in conversation with peppered questions about forging and knife making.

Throughout all of this the baby on Sansa’s lap remained quiet, so when Gendry turned to Arya to talk to her about something, Sandor hazarded a glance in Sansa’s direction. At the same time she looked up, and she smiled at him. He liked seeing her like this--happy, smiling, obviously content in her family’s presence. He wiped his hands on his napkin and asked her if she’d like dessert, to which she nodded affirmatively.

He took both their plates and stood, drawing stares from both Robb and Jeyne before he walked around them to the table of food. He put a piece of cheesecake and a couple cookies on both his and Sansa’s plates before returning to his seat. When he set her plate in front of her he saw that she had drawn the baby up to her chest and was nuzzling it’s--her--face. 

His chest tightened at the sight, and he paused in going for a bite of cheesecake to watch Sansa. 

Being a father was something he never envisioned for himself, not with kids openly rejecting him the way they did. He couldn’t see allowing a child to grow up around him, fearing him. Or to have their friends fear him. It would have been torture to grow close to a small child like that and to be rejected so wholly. It was something he never saw recovering from as being a possibility.

But Sansa--he could see her being a mother. The way she was holding Sophie, cradling her to her chest, rubbing that tiny little nose with the pad of her finger, kissing the little baby girl’s forehead and smiling so ridiculously big at the tiny face, who was now, incidentally, looking up at her, he couldn’t see her  _ not _ one day having children.

Before he could consider the implications of that train of thought, and what it meant for his and Sansa’s future, he realized Sansa was turning the baby so she could directly face him.

Sandor’s fork clattered to his plate and he looked away, this long built-up fear in him wanting nothing to do with that baby. Part of him felt like he was being absurd, but the other part was fear, all fear, and anxiety. 

When he felt more eyes turning towards him he stood, grunting a muffled  _ Excuse me _ as he barely managed to calmly walk away from the table. Expectedly, he heard Sansa follow him.

“Hey! Sandor,” she called, her voice gentle. 

He hadn’t walked far, nor fast, not wanting it to appear as though he had panicked, even though he had. He had aimed for the wide open lawn, not even thinking that if he didn’t want people to see him he should have gone around the corner of the garage and to his truck. But perhaps then he would have been tempted to drive away, so… Maybe this was better.

“Hey,” Sansa said again, this time at his elbow. 

He glanced down and saw she was still carrying the baby, so he slowed and then stopped, hands on his hips as he kept his back to the barbecue. They were far enough away now that he knew they wouldn’t be able to hear him and Sansa speaking if they used quiet voices.

The lawn angled down from the patio and dipped in the middle, before raising up on the other side and ending in a small flower garden with a log swing in the middle. They stood in the middle, at the bottom of the dip, with tall, white birch trees surrounding the three sides of the lawn that weren’t boxed in by the house. Sansa moved to stand in front of him, looking up at him though he didn’t want to look down at her.

“What’s wrong, Sandor?” she asked, and with one hand she reached out and coaxed one of his hands off his hip. She grasped it in hers and stepped close, though not close enough because the baby was in the way.

Sandor sighed, and suddenly the conversation with Ned came back to his mind, and how he’d promised Ned to come to him if there was ever a problem that felt like alcohol was a solution.

Well, he thought that this would have indeed been a scenario where in the past he would have turned to alcohol to drown out his thoughts. But what was the alternative, if not alcohol, to being weighed down by these thoughts and fears?

Slowly he turned his gaze down to Sansa’s face, but no lower. Her blue eyes were trained on him, concern written on her brow and understanding in her eyes. She was here, and he supposed this issue involved her and their future, so rather than avoid it, he decided to go with the only alternative to speaking with Ned and decided to speak directly to Sansa about it. After all, if they were going to make a go of this relationship, he had better learn to be honest about all his failings.

“Could we talk over there?” He motioned for the swing, and she nodded, though she didn’t let go of his hand. Together they walked up the incline and sat on the swing, with Sansa angling her body towards his. She had one leg tucked underneath her other thigh and neither foot touched the ground at that angle, so he rocked them gently with his own feet planted firmly on the flat stones beneath the swing’s seat.

“I’m sorry about that,” he started, rubbing the back of her wrist with his thumb. 

She smiled at him, a breeze whipping up soft tendrils of red hair around her neck. 

“Could you tell me what’s going on?”

There was no way out of this, so he nodded. 

“I’ve never been fond of kids,” he said, and to his surprise she nodded in agreement.

“I remember you telling me kids made you uncomfortable. Because of your scars, right?” 

Sandor glanced at her and then away, glad that she remembered their long ago conversation on Halloween. 

Sansa looked away, but then Sophie waved an arm that had escaped her blanket, and Sandor was curious enough to watch out of the corner of his eye as Sansa gave her a finger to hold onto. Sophie calmed, though it looked as though she was exploring the finger, trying to bring it to her mouth.

Sansa looked up suddenly, her eyes on Sandor. 

“You’re not talking about babies, too, are you?” 

Sandor looked at her for a moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold her gaze. It was enough of an affirmative for her, because she gave a soft  _ Oh my goodness _ before scooting close to him and leaning her head against the outside of his shoulder. 

“Sandor, do you think babies are afraid of your scars?”

Sandor inhaled deeply and let it out as a heavy sigh. 

He nodded, saying, “I’ve kept away from all kids, Sansa, because of it. I’ve had too many of them run screaming from me because they say I look like a monster.” 

It still hurt, remembering the handful of occasions where he had attempted to go grocery shopping himself, instead of having Gendry do it. 

“I just got used to it, so now I stay away from kids. But… Seeing you with Sophie, well…” He let his voice trail off.

“What?” Sansa prompted. She was looking at him now, and he turned his face down to hers.

“Look at you, Sansa. You’re meant to be a mom. You love this kid. You’re a natural.” He cleared his throat, causing Sophie to jump a bit in Sansa’s arms. Sandor would have growled in frustration if he didn’t think it would make the baby cry.

“Yes?” Sansa was still looking at him. “So?” 

Sandor looked her straight in the eye, deciding he would have to be blunt. 

“You’re made for kids and I am not. What does that say about us?”

To his surprise, Sansa laughed.  _ Laughed! _ Although he always liked that sound, he was a little irritated that she was laughing at his insecurities. He could see across the lawn where they were getting some odd looks from her family at the table.

“Oh, Sandor, I’m not laughing at you,” she assured him as she calmed. “But you must know, babies aren’t genetically predispositioned to be scared of scars--even scars as bad as yours.” 

She moved Sophie so she was cradled in the arm closest to Sandor, and then Sansa reached up to cup his jaw with her hand, turning his head to look at her. 

“I love your scars, Sandor. They’re a part of you. I never shied away from them, I never thought they made you ugly or scary or--whatever else you’re thinking in that big head of yours.” Her eyes shone with love, but then she blushed, her thumb tracing the shape of his lower lip. “I mean, I hadn’t thought about it before now but… I think we’d make some beautiful kids.”

Again with that lip-biting thing, she looked up at him, her hand dropping to his chest where it rested over his heart. 

“But,” her face fell, “If you don’t want to have kids, ever, well… I don’t know. I--”

“You would want to have kids with me?” 

Sandor was incredulous. How the  _ fuck _ had he found this woman? She amazed him every day. First she fell in love with him, and now she’s saying she would like to one day have babies with him. What was going to be next, she wouldn’t mind vowing to spend the rest of her life with him? 

But she looked at him now, the expression on her face saying,  _ Isn’t it obvious? _

“Sandor, I think you would be a great father. I mean, think about it--you’re kind and funny, loving, honest…” She glanced up at him and smiled mischievously. “I would totally have Arya kick your ass if you ever drank alcohol again, but of  _ course _ I would.” 

Then she blushed again, getting all shy as she looked down at Sophie. 

“Would  _ you _ want to have kids with  _ me _ ?”

Sandor thought for a moment about what she’d said. Would it be possible? Could he be a good dad? Could his kids grow to love him despite his scars, even perhaps because of his scars, as Sansa had implied? Would taking that leap be a good idea, with her?

He pictured a little red-haired girl, maybe a dark-haired boy, and Sansa in the thick of things, hair piled on top of her head, peanut butter on her face, and then there was himself in the image, laying on the floor while they crawled on top of him. It was a scene he’d seen in a show before, and it was easy to superimpose their own faces onto the characters. The image tugged at his heart until he knew the answer.

Then he answered her truthfully, “With no one  _ but _ you,” and the smile she sent him made his heart skip.

It was sometime later, when they had rejoined the group and Jeyne had whisked Sophie off to nurse her, that Sansa told him she wouldn’t mind leaving. The look on her face said she just wanted him all to herself, and he couldn’t argue with that.

Robb had walked over to say goodbye, and to Sandor’s surprise, the handshake this time was genuine. So was the clap on the shoulder, and the  _ Thanks for taking care of my sister _ . Sandor found himself inviting the man, who must have only been a few years younger than him, over to the workshop sometime, and that he’d make sure Sansa was there so Jeyne and Sophie could visit as well. Robb agreed just as Jeyne returned, and he went to talk with Ned and Gendry by the door to the house.

Catelyn came near and asked Sansa, Jeyne and Arya to join her one more time in the kitchen, and suddenly Jeyne was lifting Sophie up to Sandor’s chest and asking him to hold her for a minute while she went to see what Catelyn wanted.

There was nothing to be done. Literally, nothing--unless he wanted to outright refuse. So he put both of his arms out as a small platform for Jeyne to deposit the baby, who to his surprise, was wide awake. 

He’d heard she was only a couple months old, but he was surprised at how wide her eyes were, how aware of what was going on around her she was.

He stood there, still as a statue, as his elbow lifted to support her head, and his other arm came up to bracket her to his body, suddenly realizing how tiny and fragile she must be, paired with how tall he was, and how long of a fall that would be if he dropped her.

He looked at her and grimaced, part of him still waited for the crying to start when she looked at him. But when she did, she just kept her eyes open, blinking a few times while her tiny infant eyes inspected his face, his beard, his nose. 

Then she made a sound, her mouth becoming a little O as she cooed up at him.

Sandor didn’t know what to do. Coo back? Make a sound? Instead, he lifted his hand a bit to reach one finger out, and slid it into her tiny fist. She immediately grabbed it, though her eyes didn’t leave his face. She gazed at him as her tiny hand gripped his finger with surprising strength, and she squirmed a little as though trying to get comfortable. He shifted his arms a bit, tilting her more towards his body, still afraid that he would drop her.

Then she smiled, a wide, toothless smile up at him and he froze. Absolutely froze. Every bone in his body, every muscle seized up as though he had become a still picture, all except for the tiny bundle of smiling goo in his arms.

She cooed again, and Sandor heard himself whispering, “Hey there,” to her, and then he wiggled his finger back and forth to see what she would do. She just smiled again, her eyes flitting around his face, clearly moving to the area where his scar marred his skin, and then back to his nose, his eyes, his beard, his smile when he realized he was showing her his teeth in a grin that mirrored her own. 

Well, except he  _ had _ teeth. She didn’t. And she was… cute. So damned cute.

Her nose was a tiny little upturned thing, her cheeks round and soft. He stroked one with his middle finger, even as she kept ahold of his index finger, and the stroking seemed to evoke a smile out of her. So he did it all at once--wiggled his finger, stroked her cheek, and said to her again, “Hey there,” all the while not being able to control the smile that spread on his own face as she beamed at him and cooed. 

Somewhere, deep in his heart, he heard a faint  _ I could do this _ , and it surprised him so much he didn’t hear Ned approach.

“Sandor,” said Ned, stopping when he was really close to Sandor so he could look down at his and Catelyn’s first grandchild. “Didn’t take you for a baby kind of guy.”

Sandor huffed a short laugh and raised his brow, bringing his gaze up to Ned who stood a few inches shorter than him.

“Neither did I,” he answered honestly, his voice rough with an undecipherable emotion. 

“They’re a lot of work, especially when they get to be teenagers. But it’s all worth it in the end.” Ned brought his own finger up and took ahold of Sophie’s other fist, who now clasped a man’s finger in each of her small hands. 

“She likes you,” said Ned, suddenly, catching Sandor off guard. Sandor shrugged lightly.

“Yeah, but don’t babies like everyone?”

Ned chuckled softly, eyes on his granddaughter. “Nope,” he said, smiling. “Sansa was a daddy’s girl, for sure, when she was a baby. I could hold her all day long, but all she wanted Catelyn for was milk.” 

Sandor thought for sure he blushed at the mention of that, but he hid it by not lifting his head. 

Ned went on, “That changed when Arya was born, and suddenly Sansa wanted her mother and I was chopped liver. But that’s how it goes with parenting. They’re little people, you can’t forget that. And they have their likes and dislikes, same as the rest of us.” Ned slipped his finger out of Sophie’s grasp, but it didn’t matter to her. She only had eyes for Sandor.

“She likes you,” the man said, and Sandor slid his gaze from Sophie to Ned, confused about what was happening. “So will your own kids,” Ned added with a smile, before he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hemmed and hawed over Chapter 27 and have decided not to split it up. So in a couple days you'll be getting a 7,000-word chapter and yes, you'll just have to deal with it ;-)
> 
> There was just nowhere in the chapter where I felt would be a good place to break it up... if that sentence even makes sense. Plus it's the last chapter before the epilogue.
> 
> Phew! Thanks for coming along this wild ride with me! See you in a few days!! (if I can hold back that long before posting lol)


	27. June 3, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psych! I added to the chapter and it ended up being over 8,000 words lol.
> 
> So I split it. 
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> BUT the good news is that the story is done, with only minor editing to be done in the epilogue. So we're looking at 28 chapters, 29 with the epilogue.
> 
> Thank you all AGAIN for sticking with me through this!

“Looklooklook!” Jeyne was saying, and suddenly there were four women crowded around the kitchen sink, all trying to look out the small window at the sight they saw on the lawn. 

Not too far away stood Sandor, alone, no one around him, except for a tiny Sophie in his arms.

“Oh, Jeyne! What did you do?!” Sansa was shocked and somewhat scared for Sandor’s peace of mind, so she moved to go out and rescue him. But a small hand firmly pulled her back, and Jeyne was telling her to be quiet and just watch.

So watch they did, as Sandor stood there, looking like he was holding the most expensive vase in the world. 

“He looks like you handed him a bomb,” said Arya with a snicker, and Catelyn flicked her on the head with her finger.

“Hush, Arya,” she scolded, and they all watched as he adjusted his grip.

“See? It comes naturally to men, they just don’t know it,” Jeyne was saying quietly, a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “They don’t expect it,” she added.

Sansa realized what they were seeing was quite special--a transformation going on in Sandor’s mind as he held the tiny baby. She memorized what she was seeing, as he lifted a finger and let the baby clasp onto it. Her eyes watered unaccountably, and her heart overflowed with some unnamed emotion as she felt herself fill with love for Sandor.

Then he said something to Sophie, and he  _ smiled _ , and a chorus of hushed  _ Awwww _ ’s resounded from the kitchen sink--even Arya, who was as tomboy as they come.

When Ned walked over to Sandor, Sansa decided it was time to go. She asked Jeyne if she would kindly remove her baby from her boyfriend’s arms, and the smaller woman headed over to the door, offering up a cheeky  _ You’re welcome _ as she went. Arya followed her, leaving Sansa alone with Catelyn.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” her mother was saying as she put a stack of plates into the kitchen sink. Sansa smiled and nodded. She knew what her mother was referring to.

“Yes, it is. He was just startled by the baby, that’s all.” Sansa laughed softly at the absurdity of that, based on what they had just seen, and Catelyn’s eyes darted to the window and back, as though she agreed. 

“And things are serious between you two?” 

Sansa nodded, running her hand over the corner of the kitchen island as her mom waited for her to answer.

“They are, actually,” she said, smiling at the memory of Sandor asking her if she’d want to have his babies. She didn’t have to tell her mom about that, though. 

Catelyn walked over and wrapped Sansa in a hug, which Sansa gladly returned. 

“And you’re happy?”

“Very, mom.” Catelyn smiled softly and tucked a hair behind Sansa’s ear.

“Honey, I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, mom.” She glanced over to where she could see Sandor walking towards the door of the house, his easy, long strides carrying him over the distance faster than a normal person’s. “I’m happy for myself, too.”

They sat in silence on the way home, but Sansa was more lost in her thoughts than ever. Seeing Sandor cradle Sophie like that had been eye-opening, and now she was assailed with images of Sandor holding  _ their _ baby, of a baby with black hair and gray eyes, or a tiny, pale baby with red hair and blue eyes. It didn’t matter what the baby looked like, though. What mattered was he was holding it the same way he had held Sophie.

Sansa didn’t think she’d ever seen anything she thought was more heartwarming than seeing Sandor, the biggest man at the barbecue; tall, dark and scarred, reduced to cooing at a tiny baby and smiling at her. If she had thought she loved him before, that image of him would forever be imprinted on her heart as part of the definition of her love for him.

They sat now in his truck, Sansa back in the middle seat with her hand wrapped around his bicep, her head resting on his shoulder, and her other hand crossing her lap to rest on his thigh. She was finding that she couldn’t feel close enough to him, and likely would have climbed on his lap if he hadn’t been driving.

So, he liked the idea of having babies with her. The thought made her smile against his sleeve. 

To go from being afraid of kids--including  _ babies _ , no less--to cradling one with such affection like he just had with Sophie, was an amazing transformation. She wondered if Sandor was thinking about it.

_ Jeyne _ . Another smile spread across Sansa’s face. She was sure Jeyne had completely orchestrated that moment, had seen an opportunity and had grabbed it. By the way Jeyne had pulled Sansa back into the kitchen when she would have gone out to  _ rescue _ Sandor, Sansa was sure of it.

But,  _ oh _ , what a handsome sight he’d been. And, she could admit now to herself, damned sexy. Finding out that her boyfriend was not only big, strong, and kind, but that he had suddenly developed a soft spot for her little niece made him more appealing on a whole different level.

Which is why she suddenly found herself stroking his thigh as she closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of him through his shirt, feeling the muscles under his jeans, now taut with her movements.

“Sansa,” came Sandor’s voice, her name barely a growl on his lips.

“Hmm?” she replied, eyes still closed.

“What are you thinking?” 

She smiled at that. He must have known she had something on her mind.

“About you and Sophie,” she said, and then she realized what she had revealed. He tensed for another reason altogether.

“What do you mean, me and Sophie?” Sandor’s voice was suspicious and wary. With the flat of her palm, Sansa stroked the top of his thigh in a comforting gesture.

“We were watching you in the kitchen,” she admitted, peeking up at him through an open eye before quickly closing it at his stone face.

“Yeah?” he prompted. Sansa squeezed the bicep under her hand. “Who is  _ we _ ?”

“Me, mom, Arya, and Jeyne.” She chuckled as Sandor murmured a curse under his breath. He navigated a hill and lifted his leg to press on the brake. Sansa felt the strength of muscle under her hand.

He was silent for a moment, and Sansa let him process that information--that he was being spied upon when he’d had his moment with Sophie. When he spoke, his voice was gruff.

“So… You saw that.” It was a statement, but she knew he was feeling self conscious. She wondered…

“I did. How does that make you feel?”

He chuckled. “You sound like EB.” Sansa laughed as well, but she told him she was serious.

“Well…” he began, but he paused, so she asked him a question.

“How did you feel when you were holding her?”

His chest expanded and contracted with a deep breath, and he slowed the truck down as they reached the bottom of the hill where the road leveled out.

“Nervous, at first, like I was going to drop her or something.” 

Sansa smiled. He wasn’t a man prone to talking about his feelings, and she just figured out that all she had to do was ask. 

“But then she was looking at me.” Awe was infiltrating his voice as he spoke, “and she wasn’t scared. She was just… staring.” Sansa looked up at him to see a slight smile playing at his lips. “Then she smiled at me, and… I don’t know.” He glanced down at her, and he looked embarrassed.

“She smiled?” Sansa prompted. 

Sandor nodded.

“Yeah… She smiled.”

And that was that, as though those two words explained everything she needed to know, and to a point they did. But her heart was full of love for him, and by the time they got back to his place, they were back to talking about inconsequential stuff--their jobs, their plans for the week, and what they both wanted to do with the rest of their summer.

As Sandor stood making coffee in his still cleaned kitchen, and Sansa got comfortable on his couch in front of the TV, she watched him moving about--getting down two mugs, filling the coffee pot with water, dumping it in the coffee maker and measuring out the coffee. She was surprised to find her gaze kept going to his butt. She felt silly, like she was about to giggle and her ears were going to turn red from staring at him.

But then he turned, and their eyes met and she did have to turn away, such was the smoldering connection that sizzled between them.

Something had changed for her today, something integral to their relationship. Somehow, seeing him with Sophie had turned something on inside her, and as she sat staring at the TV while Sandor moved about his kitchen, she smiled, thinking of the implications of that. She couldn’t reconcile seeing him holding Sophie with this increase in attraction, and it confused her, but it also excited her.

She had been thinking of moving forward with the physical aspect of their relationship but she didn’t quite know how to do it. She also had pondered speaking to Sandor about it, but then she felt silly, because didn’t most couples just naturally move onto that step? Actually, very similar to what they had done two months ago--how cleaning his room had turned into the hottest make-out session she’d ever experienced, and then when the clothes came off and he had climbed on top of her in bed…

She expected to feel shock, thinking about it now, or to feel some of the same mortification that had torn into her in the hours after they had come together. But instead she felt… warm. No, hot.  _ Heated _ , she realized, with her palms slightly sweaty and a warmth pooling low between her legs.

As though testing a theory, she turned to look at Sandor and saw him from the side, stirring two cups of coffee with his other hand casually resting in his pocket. Then, there it was--a spark inside her heart that radiated outwards as she realized she wanted to touch him, to touch more of him than what she could reach when he had his clothes on.

And she wanted him to touch her. More than just holding hands, more than just a hand on her thigh as he drove. More than holding onto his arm, cupping the muscle as he walked her up to her apartment. She pulled her legs together, causing pressure between her legs that made her bite her lip.

> Sansa: Hello Mr. (907) 555-0176

Sandor’s phone dinged in his pocket, and she watched him pull it out to check it. He didn't move, didn't look at her, but she watched him type something a moment before her own phone chimed, the sounds of robins chirping filling his living room.

> **Sandor: Hello Ms. (907) 455-4005**
> 
> Sansa: How are you doing?

Sandor glanced over at her from where he stood by the counter, an amused smirk on his face. 

> **Sandor: Good. You?**
> 
> Sansa: I'm good. Do you realize today that it's exactly two years after I wrong-numbered you, and you drunk-texted me back?
> 
> **Sandor: I did not. Is it significant?**
> 
> Sansa: Well, in a way. You could say today is our two year anniversary.
> 
> **Sandor: Huh. That's a time of my life I don't care to think about.**

Sansa looked up, smiling lovingly at him from where she sat.

> Sansa: It’s your bad decisions and my bad choice in men that brought us together. I think we're lucky we were so darn stupid.

Sandor laughed out loud before sliding his phone into his pocket, the sound of his voice raising goosebumps on her bare arms.

“Hey, I wanted to show you something I’ve been working on,” Sandor was saying, and she turned away so he wouldn’t see her blush. When she turned back he was standing behind the couch looking down at her, hands holding two steaming cups of coffee. At the moment she wasn’t sure she wanted to drink anything hot--she already felt like she was overheating.

But she followed him out into the bright evening, the sun still illuminating everything as though it were barely dusk despite it being after 8:00pm. 

He unlocked the door and Sansa was struck again by how neat and tidy the whole space was, compared to what his cabin had been like before they'd cleaned it. She laughed, bringing Sandor up short as he walked over to a bench on the far side of the room.

“Sandor!” she exclaimed, a hand covering her mouth as she tried not to laugh. He looked over at her, his one eyebrow raising in question. “It’s just so… organized!”

Now his brow furrowed and he looked around, looking as though he was trying to see what she saw. 

His tools were all clean and lined up on his benches, his tool boxes were stacked and orderly, and the floor was swept clear of debris. His sheets of steel were stacked against a wall in the corner, and his workbench was free of clutter.

“Hmm… well…” He muttered, looking around. Sansa just smiled at him, drawing her hair over her shoulder as she walked up to him. 

“I’m just glad, that’s all. What did you want to show me?” He paused to look at her, smiling as he reached for her hand to lead her over to a workbench.

Laying on top was the blade of an incredibly long sword, perhaps forty-eight inches long, with an oddly-shaped piece of steel extending out where the handle would be. Behind it was a piece of wood almost as long, with some clamps attached to it. The steel looked interwoven with dark lines creating a swirling, magical design on its surface.

“Oh my god, Sandor, it’s beautiful!” She reached out to touch it, and ran her fingers along the groove that ran down the center of the blade. Sandor came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, watching as she visually and tactilely examined his work.

“I’m thinking of making more to sell in the shop.” He reached around her and took hold of the sword by the handle area, and Sansa realized it was indeed a long handle. Sandor saw her looking at it and explained, “I’ll cover this with a handle material, probably antler or horn. This is what is called full-tang, where the metal goes all the way through the handle like this.” He ran his finger down along the flat edge of the handle portion, and she thought she understood.

Then he stood back and Sansa turned around to watch him. He swung the blade in an arc in front of him, then swooped it down at an angle left, then right, and then another circling arc before he rested the tip against the floor beside his boot.

Meanwhile, Sansa watched him with her mouth open. If ever anyone had looked like a knight of olde, as though he belonged in armor on a massive horse, it was Sandor. Not to mention, him wielding that sword was  _ hot _ .

He smiled at her astonished look and turned it in his grip, holding it out to her handle-first so she could take the long handle between her small hands. When he began to let go she would have dropped it, had he completely loosened his grip.

“Oh my, it’s so heavy! How can you hold this thing?!” Sandor chuckled and put the sword back on the bench.

“I’m a bit stronger than you are,” he said, bringing his arm up to flex his bicep, as he shot Sansa a wink.

Sansa’s gaze fell on his arm and she stepped forward, her fingers itching to touch him, as they had been for the last half hour. She reached her hand out, resting her fingers against the tight fabric of his t-shirt sleeve. She kept her eyes on his arm as she traced the swell of his muscle, and then brought her other hand up to repeat the process on his left bicep.

Then she looked up and saw beneath the hair on his neck that he swallowed. That movement, in the thick corded muscle of his neck, made her mouth water.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Sandor swallowed, and watched her watch him; her eyes on his neck, her mouth parted. Then she drew both lips into her mouth, wetting them as her eyes came back up to his.

He didn't know what was happening, but he was suddenly aware of the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her halter top, and the way the coolness of the shop was making her nipples harden.

He felt himself do the same inside his jeans, and he froze, suddenly afraid of what would happen if they got physical. He was terrified of her running again; though, now that he thought about it, it would take a lot for them to get to that point. After all, there was a lot they could do before reaching full-on sex.

And right now, she looked as though she would be willing to do some of those things. 

Her beautiful hair was fanned over one shoulder and he reached out to brush it back, his fingers dusting the top of her shoulder as he did it. He watched goosebumps appear on her skin. She shivered, and her eyes met his. Then it was like the shop fell away and it was just the two of them suspended in space, as her hands came up to cup his face and draw him down to her.

It was the sweetest thing, the way the skin of her palms felt against the surface of his scars. No one had ever touched the scars as she had the few times she'd reached out. Like that first night he'd gone to have dinner at her house and her hand had cupped his face--he’d had no other choice but to lean into the alluring sensation. He did that now, leaning his face to the right to press his cheek into her hand as her fingertips gently stroked the bumpy, creviced surface. He couldn't feel her on the outer layer, but beneath the scars he could feel the warmth of her hand, the sensation of pressure, he could feel her presence on the part of him he had kept most hidden from the world.

The look in her eyes was complete love. He could feel it now, could sense it, even if she had told him a few times in the last couple of weeks. But today, he knew the tipping point had been their talk of babies, had known the tipping point for her, somehow, strangely, was seeing him hold baby Sophie. He wasn't sure what it was about the sight of him holding that tiny human, but Sansa had been different since.

And now he could feel it himself--the difference  _ between _ them, like arcing electricity, something pulling them together as though they had always been meant for each other. He felt like he had waited thirty-seven years to meet her, that he was supposed to go through life miserable and alone because at this point he had always been destined to meet her. 

Truthfully, if he could live his life over again, be afforded opportunities to do things differently, he wouldn't. He would welcome being burned again and living in solitude if it meant his path would again converge with hers.

Those thoughts, paired with that damned opening of her mouth and her glistening lips, made him unable to think any further and he lowered his mouth to hers, sliding his own over her mouth until she leaned into him and opened further, allowing his tongue to explore the inner confines. Her tongue tangled with his and it was so sweet, this new sensation of kissing and being kissed--something he never had thought to experience.

When she moaned, he wrapped his arms around her, and her hands slid back into his hair. Her back arched as he bent over to delve into her mouth, pulling her torso into his as her arms snaked around his neck, pulling his face close to hers.

Sandor's hand moved down, cupping her bottom through the flimsy fabric of her skirt. He squeezed and her response was to lift that leg, rubbing it against the outside of his thigh as his hand slid underneath to cup her knee. 

His mouth left hers and trailed kisses across her jaw, leaving a trail of redness from his beard and the scratchy texture of his mustache. But rather than stop him, she whimpered, her fingers entwining themselves in his hair and gripping it, holding onto him as though she would fall at any moment. He sensed this, and gripped her around the waist, lifting her to the edge of the workbench.

She yelped, but when he looked at her she wasn't fazed by the change of scenery. Instead she reached out and grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, pulling him close as she now had perfectly parallel access to attack his mouth with her own. 

His hands couldn't decide which part of her he wanted to touch more so they roamed--over her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips that were so close to his, and the lengths of her thighs where they gripped him. Then they traveled upwards, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts as they moved around to her upper back.

Sansa moaned in response, pressing her breasts up against the wall of his chest. He was captured between her legs as she pulled at him. 

He had wanted to keep it sedate, but she was being so sexy, moving in ways that reminded him of the night two months ago when she had turned him on so completely. She was writhing against him, kissing him with abandon, holding onto him as though he would disappear if she didn't, and before he knew it he was cupping her hips in his large hands and pulling her forward so that the juncture of her thighs was pressing against his erection through his jeans.

"Oh god," she rasped, her voice weak and so damned sexy. But she didn’t pull away, didn’t recoil at his movements. 

Sandor's response was a growl against her mouth as his lips left a path of scratchy kisses against the other side of her jaw, smoothing back across her right side to the sensitive skin of her neck. There he placed open-mouthed kisses, tasting and suckling at her flesh until he latched onto her pulse point and she cried out, gripping his hair so hard he winced.

Then her lips were on his face, the scars on his right side, his temple, what was left of his ear, her fingers directing his head to do her bidding, affording her access to his skin wherever she wished to have it. He would have pulled away at the attention if she wasn't also grinding the apex of her thighs against his hardness--had he not been going out of his mind with desire, and also the overwhelming urge to love her for loving him so completely.

“Sandor,” she gasped against the remnants of his right ear. He brought his face up to hers, their breath mixing, her lips featherlight against his, hinting at pleasures not yet had as she spoke against his mouth, “I want to go inside.”

Sandor gulped, a constant worry nagging him that this was all going to backfire. But then she pulled his shirt again, crashed his mouth to hers without waiting for his answer and he was powerless to do anything other than scoop her up, still wrapped around his waist, and carry her back to the cabin, all the while deliciously suffering through her licks and kisses on his neck, his face, his scars. 

By the time he reached the front landing he had been driven so completely wild by her attentions that he lost sight of the goal and found himself unable to focus on anything other than the building pressure in his groin and the warmth he could feel seeping through her clothing where she was so intimately pressed against his body. 

Seeing the first opportunity, he backed her up against the wall of his front door alcove and drove his hips into hers, using the grip of her thighs and the wall at her back to hold her against him while he kissed her fiercely, absorbing her moans and her whimpers like fuel to his desire.

_ This _ , this was what that night had been like, this magnetism between them that, it seemed, neither of them was able to deny. He wanted her, all of her, and he was sure she wanted him. But he had to keep reminding himself that she could say  _ no _ , that she could say  _ stop, _ and he  _ would _ do as she asked. 

But she wasn’t saying it now, and he made a mental note that he hoped he would remember, to pause and stop and ask and validate her intentions throughout the evening. He was  _ not _ going to screw this up.

“Maybe I should take you home,” he ground out, dragging his mouth away from hers as she used his hair to pull his head back so she could access his neck, a cry of denial escaping her lips even as they found the sensitive skin under his ear. She was frenzied, wild. 

Sansa drew his earlobe between her teeth, then purred, “Don’t you dare.” 

The sensation, along with her breath on his ear and her hands in his hair, was like a punch to his gut and all breath escaped him in a  _ woosh _ .

One-handed, Sandor opened the door and lifted her away from the wall. He stopped once he was standing inside, hesitating despite all that had happened between them over the last few minutes.

Sansa seemed to sense it, and she slowed her movements as he let her slide back down to the floor.

“Sandor?” His name was a question. Her arms wrapped around his waist and she stepped into him, though she didn’t continue her fervid efforts to enflame his desires. He lifted his hands to cup her face, willing his heartbeat to slow, and pressed a soft kiss to her reddened lips.

Then he leaned his forehead down against hers, drawing his body back so they were no longer pressed together.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for,” he said breathlessly and by way of explanation, but he closed his eyes and waited for her to respond. It only took her a moment before she pulled away.

  
There,  _ that’s it _ , he thought.  _ I gave her an out and she’s going to take it _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I totally did NOT begin a smutty Sandor+Sansa=Baby fic today. Totally did not. Nope. Nuh-uh. 
> 
> I'll post it when it's finished <3


	28. June 3, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch! Bring on the epilogue <3
> 
> And while we're at it, is there some poor soul out there willing to walk me through adding a picset to my notes? Cuz I have some ideas I want to post, and no way to do it.
> 
> Also, I'm a newbie to tumblr, anyone wanna take me under their wing and show me what the heck it's all about? Because I'm totally lost on it.
> 
> Please help me, I'm just a writer lol.

He wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but he knew for sure what _he_ _wasn’t_ going to do. 

This was an  _ out _ for this violently erotic episode of their relationship. It was likely she’d want to hang out and watch TV, maybe have a snack before heading home later. And he would enjoy it, because he loved her and he wanted her to be happy.

The way she was looking at him now--with total love coming through her eyes--meant that he was assured of his place in her heart, and that was enough. It had to be enough. He felt his desire waning as he struggled inwardly with disappointment.

But then Sansa smiled at him, and she was reaching to the waistband of her skirt and…

Pushing it down? Over her hips? Sandor’s mind wasn’t working at the same rate his eyes were. He watched the elastic waistband slide down over her hips, her eyes never leaving his face, revealing to him royal blue lace panties that were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. 

But his mind was still wondering  _ what the hell is going on _ , even as she kicked away the skirt so it landed in a pool of fabric behind her.

She stood before him in the halter top and blue panties, and he couldn’t move. He didn’t know what was happening, until she reached up and untied the back of her halter top, then crossed her arms over her chest and drew the whole thing up and over her head, to be joined with the skirt on the floor.

Sandor’s body recognized  _ that _ .

She clasped her hands in front of her stomach, and Sandor realized he was staring at her--again--like a green boy. 

He groaned her name as she walked to him, all smooth skin and pert breasts, sexy smile and flowing hair. As though in a dream, he felt her arms slide up around his neck, and his hands landed on the soft curve of her waist, travelling upwards over the outside edge of her ribcage, over her shoulders, and up her arms until his arms couldn’t bend that way anymore. Then they came back down to wrap around her waist and he hauled her flush against him, her breasts crushed to his chest as he kissed her deeply, passionately.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and Sansa chuckled, the sound like cool water on a hot day.

“Sandor, I’m sure.” She pulled back to look at his face, her expression telling him she was just offering a disclaimer as she said, “Just go slow… okay?” 

She blushed, and-- _ fucking hell _ \--HE blushed. But he nodded, knowing he would rather disappear into a black hole than ever hurt her again.

She let go of him and grasped his hand, leading him back into the bedroom that held one of the worst memories of his life, and she single handedly banished it from his mind as she slowly, excruciatingly slowly, pulled up the hem of his t-shirt and helped him out of it. 

He could barely keep himself from grabbing her and throwing her onto the bed, so much was his desire to have his mouth on her breasts, to feel them against his face. 

Almost comically, the thought flashed through his mind,  _ I must be a boob man _ , but as Sansa worked to divest him of his boots and jeans, undoing the snap and the zipper and pushing them down his hips, even going so far as to crouch down and pull them off his legs, he shook his head. 

No, he was a Sansa man, as the sight of her bare back as she worked was as much as turn-on as the sight of her front. 

He bent down then, gently putting his hands on her back and stroking them down towards her waist and back again, as she looked up into his face. He just wanted to see if it was as soft as it felt, if her skin was indeed that pale ivory, lightness against the darkness of his own tanned skin.

When she stood, and they were both wearing nothing but their underwear, she leaned into him once again.

“I love you, Sandor,” she said, nuzzling his chest with her nose. 

She kissed his sternum through the hair there, then rested her cheek against the center as she wrapped her arms around his torso.

Sandor realized she probably needed comfort, and as he engulfed her in his embrace, he felt the soothing sensation of her smaller body wrapped around his was something he had needed as well. This reassurance that she wasn’t leaving, and that what was going to happen between them was mutual, something to be cherished.

So when he guided her back to the bed and laid her down on it, there was no more doubt in his mind that the love that had grown between them was going to cushion anything and everything that happened.

And  _ finally _ , he was able to get his mouth on her breasts.

With her hands in his hair again, he drew one nipple into his mouth, fitting his hand over the other small, incredibly soft, pert breast. He loved how it fit in his hand, loved the way her nipple pearled in his mouth, and the softness of her skin beneath his tongue. He switched sides as she moaned, her grip on his hair tightening as one leg came up to rub at his hip. Sandor could smell her arousal, and he trailed a string of kisses downwards, her hands sliding out of his hair to grip the soft comforter on his bed.

The soft skin of her belly reddened as his beard drew a path down her sensitive skin, until his lips met the barrier of the edge of her panties. There, where her hip bones could be felt under the soft flesh of her sides, he pressed kisses that made her writhe and whimper above him, noting the way her body twitched as his mouth travelled the path made by her panties to the side of her body. 

Mentally cataloging that spot, he moved on, looking up at her as she watched him with lips parted and short breaths. She bit her lip when he hooked a finger in the center of her waistband and pulled down, alternating kisses and glances at her as he left a trail of soft wetness until he reached the line of auburn curls that hid her from him.

He had to close his eyes, such was the sexiness that confronted him at the sight. “Sansa,” he breathed, placing an open-mouth kiss right above that spot before rearing back to his knees and slowly pulling the thin, lace fabric over her hips and down her legs, his eyes following it the whole way until he dropped them on the bottom corner of the bed.

Then, when he looked back at her, his heart tripped in his chest. She laid before him, naked as her nameday, hands clenched in his comforter and hair strewn about her head on his pillow, a mass of golden red waves that made her look like a painting.

Her eyes were on him and though there was no uncertainty on her face, nor was there confidence. So he took a moment to relieve himself of his boxers, being quick to lay down beside her so she didn’t feel solely exposed. He knew she was nervous--would have to be completely stupid to  _ not _ know--and he wanted to assuage her fears.

He did this by using a finger to tilt her face to his, finally returning her words before he pressed his lips to hers. “I love you, Sansa,” he said, and he drew her into him with a kiss that he used to show her his love.

It wasn’t long before she was angling her body towards his, until her leg was once again coming up to slide against his now naked skin. When she moaned into his mouth he decided now was the time to do what he had been aching to do since the night they first laid on this bed.

Though she whimpered at the loss of his mouth, he could tell her body approved of the way he kissed down her jaw and neck, over her shoulder and to her breasts, where he stole a moment to suckle at her nipple, enjoying the moans and hitched breaths his attention caused. Then he left it, kissing down the side of her stomach until he reached her hip, moving his body down the bed as he went, thanking the powers that be for his need for a California king mattress.

When he kneeled and ran a hand down her thigh, over the inside of her knee to grasp her at the ankle, she bit her lip again but didn’t resist when he pulled it to his left. Though his eyes left her face then, focusing instead on the glistening wetness that lay between her legs. In a moment he was  _ there _ , inhaling the scent of his affect on her and her response to him.

He was rock hard by then, and he thought for sure he would go insane. But he wanted too much for this to be good for  _ her _ , for this to be a good memory, that he ignored his discomfort and ineptitude--his awkwardness at never having done this to a woman before.

Slowly he lowered his mouth to her curls, seeing in his peripheral vision her head falling back to the pillow. It seemed awkward, this position that he was in and knowing exactly where on her he wanted to have access. So with his left hand he nudged at her knee until she brought it up, snaking his arm beneath it so she had no choice but to rest her heel on the bed at his side. This opened her for him, and he could see the prize, what he had been wanting to see so desperately.

Then, with anticipation burning in his throat, he licked up her slit and tasted her for the first time.

Sansa had grabbed the second pillow on the bed and was now pressing it to her face, and Sandor paused, savoring her like cream on his tongue as he reached up with his other hand to grasp the pillow and toss it away, much to Sansa’s surprise.

She looked down at him, lifting her head so she could see his face, and as she watched him with her gorgeous blue eyes, darkened with desire, he repeated the action, licking clear up to the sensitive nub hidden in the folds of skin. He heard her murmur  _ “oh god _ ” as her head once again fell back, and Sandor pressed his face into her and ever so gently laved his tongue against that ball of flesh, side to side, up and down, finding that he had to hold her down with that arm wrapped around her thigh as her body attempted to buck and resist the onslaught of sensation.

He continued, peppering his actions with licks and strokes of his tongue up and down her slit, tasting her arousal and feeling more and more empowered by her wetness and her body’s reactions to what he was doing. 

Then she started to moan and whimper, the sounds like music to his ears as he felt her body begin to tense. Again she tried to buck away from his mouth so he used his right hand to hold her open to his mouth, the elbow of that arm holding her leg down until she started moaning his name.

Suddenly her hands went into his hair, gripping him there when he thought she was going to physically pull his head away from her core. But instead, much to his surprise, he felt her push against his scalp, and the movements of her hips became thrusts mere moments before she cried out in release, her lower body and legs trembling, her muscles twitching beneath his mouth as he slowed his licks, drawing his tongue once more upwards from her opening, over the sensitive nub, to place a kiss on her mound.

Her breathing was hard, her eyes closed, as he released her legs and moved up her body to lay atop her. He didn’t enter her as he wanted to, but kept his body away from hers until she looked up at him, eyes glazed and lips wet where she had worried them with her teeth. She looked so sexy with her mouth parted like that, her cheeks red and her hair a tangled mess from her twisting her head this way and that. 

“Sandor,” she gasped, her breath coming out hard, her breasts heaving beneath him, “That was--” But he kissed her, cutting off whatever she was going to say, feeling the curtain of his hair fall around them as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his body to hers. 

She moaned at his presence, and he wondered that she was either ignoring the fact that he had her all over his mouth, or it was actually turning her on, which seemed more likely. The way she was nipping and kissing at his lips, sucking his tongue as it entered her mouth, as though the scent and taste of herself on his face was inflaming her desire for him, made his mind fog over, and he pushed himself so his erection was placed at her entrance.

He groaned her name, “Sansa,” and she must have known it was his plea for permission, because she wrapped her ankles around the backs of his thighs and pulled at the same time she lifted her hips to him, hard enough to let him know she wanted him but not so hard that she was in control. 

He didn’t want to rush her, knew that they both could very easily get carried away with the moment, so he shook his head, pulling his face away from hers just enough to watch her.

“Slow,” he reminded her, his voice barely recognizable even to himself. It was deep and raspy, filled with desire and wonder as he said, “I want to see you.” 

Images of himself burying his face in her neck as he entered her last time flashed through his mind and he pushed them away, resolutely committing to being aware of her reactions this time. But it was also selfish, because she was so turned on that he wanted to fully see the effect he had on her.

And she did show him, as he entered her and her eyes locked on his. She was so tight, but with her mouth open, her neck extending with his thrust, he eased into her slowly, until he was buried deep within her as far as he dared go, which was perhaps halfway.

He looked at her but, not wanting to ruin the moment with silly questions of whether she was okay, instead paused, allowing her to adjust to his presence. For a moment her eyes closed and she sighed, before opening them again and  _ smiling _ .

“Christ, Sansa,” he swore, drawing out of her as her mouth parted again and her heels urged him back, this time going in further, before pulling out and thrusting back in until he was finally fully seated within her. 

Again, he swore, “ _ Fuck _ ,” and, embarrassingly, he was nearly overcome with emotion. He felt it behind his eyes as she looked up at him, total and utter love written across her face, and as he thrust into her he kept his eyes focused on her, determined not to miss one iota of her reaction.

He could feel her breasts rubbing against his chest, her hard nipples adding friction to his skin under his chest hair. Her strong thighs gripped his hips, and now her arms wound themselves underneath his, her hands clutching at his back and holding onto him, not directing him but clasping him to her, like she didn’t want an inch of space between their bodies.

He felt new to this, despite having had sexual experiences enough times to know what to expect. But this-- _ this was different _ . This was Sansa, his love, and she was reacting to him and his body in a way he had only ever dreamed of.

No, he didn’t even think he had ever dreamed of this, had never known anything like this could exist. Whereas before, with other women, it was duty, sometimes grudgingly completed, this with Sansa was  _ Heaven _ . As though he had never been the scarred, lonely man who paid women for sex or arranged clandestine affairs with strangers. This was Sansa--attracted to him, aroused by him, and open and willing for him.

And so he increased his thrusts, speeding up to gauge her reaction only to be confronted with her increased gasps and whimpers, being encouraged to thrust even faster at the way her nails were digging into his back. He knew she was going to leave marks but he didn’t care--what mattered was this connection between them, the love that was now being demonstrated by their bodies.

He felt himself start to build to a climax but he didn’t want to do it without her, felt that it wouldn’t be right without her also finding another release, so with one hand he reached down between his bodies, only arching enough to get his thumb between her folds to rub at her clit. 

As he thrust he let his body do some of the work, matching the rhythm of his finger to the pace his hips set, and her hands came around to grip his neck, his shoulders, his biceps.

It was as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands, that perhaps she had lost some ability to control what they did as she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Then, when he began to feel her body tense and he was going faster than he was just a moment before, she opened them again and allowed them to focus on his gaze, crying out, the feel of her body squeezing and pulsing around his erection such a powerful aphrodisiac that he followed right behind her, his own orgasm ripping through his body as he spilled himself deep inside her. 

There, he gave a couple more small thrusts as he focused on the heated skin between them, the way his chest felt pressed against her breasts, the two of them stomach to stomach, with her legs still gripping him and her hands skating over his skin. 

He rested his elbows on the bed beside her shoulders, kissing her cheek, her jaw, licking and tasting the sheen of sweat on her skin from the exertion, and she turned her face into his, kissing at his cheek and the corner of his mouth until he acquiesced and parted his lips, succumbing to the attentions of her mouth as she gave him a searing, loving kiss.

Sandor rubbed at her hair with one hand, bringing his fingers over her forehead to slide them back into her hair, then repeating it as her own arms hugged his chest to hers, her legs not releasing him from their grasp behind his thighs.

They laid there, kissing for a moment before he drew away to rest his head in the crook of her neck, his knees drawn up beside him, still connected in the most intimate way as they both caught their breaths. He slid his hands underneath the pillow at her back and effectively hugged her to him, pleased when her fingertips started drawing leisurely circles on his damp back. 

It was a long time before either of them spoke, so content was he, and likely her, in that moment of utter bliss and love and warmth, a moment more intimate than anything he had ever experienced or hoped for.

When he finally drew back enough to look at her, before he pulled himself out of her, he returned her smile as she said softly, a hand stroking his hair out of his face, “I never knew it could be like that.” Then her lips parted on a gasp as he left her body.

Sandor shook his head, his smile widening. “Nor I,” he replied, and Sansa grinned.

“I love you so much, Sandor,” she said, and now her eyes did truly water. 

Sandor kissed the outer corners but the tears slid down anyway. 

“I never want to lose you again,” she whispered hoarsely, and Sandor replied by kissing away her fears, his lips caressing hers as her movements once again slowly grew fervent and eager, her hands finding and cupping the muscle at the caps of his shoulders. Between them he felt himself begin to harden again.

“You never will,” he said, some kisses later when they paused for air. Without assistance he brought his lower body closer, nudging her open with the tip of his erection as her lips parted and she gasped, her blue eyes not even for a moment leaving his. “Never.”


	29. August 23, 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it! The end is finally here! A big thanks to everyone who read, commented, gave kudos, or who simply enjoyed while lurking in the shadows. Yes, even you, lurkers. I adore you.
> 
> Thanks for the support! The biggest thanks goes to LadyCleganeofTheNorth for putting up with my rambling emails and neediness. She's a gem, indispensable. 
> 
> Please enjoy this last chapter of The Right Number, and look for more fics coming from me soon! A Part 2, a shorter fic, a couple one-shots... Just to name what I have ALREADY WRITTEN <3
> 
> Much love to you guys! :-D

**EPILOGUE**

 

Sandor was tired of being on planes. He had managed to sleep on this last flight, as it had been all the way from Seattle to Fairbanks. But before that, through the night, his thought of Sansa and their home had been forefront in his mind, preventing sleep from taking him.

The knife show had gone well, with his sword designs bringing in some nice awards and promises of magazine spreads. It was a nice way to spend his weekend, though he had been wishing the entire time that Sansa could have been with him. But she hadn’t been cleared to fly, being so late in her pregnancy. It was just as well--she had Catelyn and Arya staying with her over the weekend, and he was sure they would have called if anything had happened. As it was, he had received texts from Arya almost every hour since he’d driven away from the cabin about how much of a pain in the ass Sansa was being.

No, he didn’t lack for updates. But he did lack for Sansa’s hugs, her kisses, her touches, the way her hands would find him at any moment of the day--be it while he was working, while he was washing dishes, eating breakfast, watching TV, or while he was driving.

_ Lord _ , the things she tried to do with her hands while he was driving. It was enough to drive a man insane with need.

He ached to get back home to her, and was relieved when he finally felt the plane’s tires hit the tarmac.

Fairbanks International Airport came into view out his window and he pulled his carry-on out from under the seat in front of him, stowing away the knife magazines he had tucked into the pouch at the back of the seat. When it was his row’s turn to depart, he stood, ready to get out of the cramped, confined space.

As he exited the plane and walked up the gangway, Sandor felt the phone in his pocket vibrate, announcing a new text message. As he entered the boarding area he walked off to the side to see who it was.

> Sansa: I’m missing you xoxo

Sandor couldn’t help but smile. He missed his wife so gods damned much.

> **Sandor: I’m coming home to take care of you.**
> 
> Sansa: Sweet seven heavens, you better do a good job, I’m dying here <3

With a chuckle and a glance to see only a couple people were curious enough to look at him, he made his way to the top of the escalator where at the bottom he knew he would see Robb waiting. His brother-in-law had promised to pick him up, in absence of Sandor’s very pregnant wife.

“Uncle Sandy!!” A high-pitched feminine shriek rent the air in the terminal and caused looks and a few winces from the other people milling about. There at the bottom of the escalator was a cute little brunette, about forty inches tall, sporting a big, flouncy pink princess dress and adorable brown pigtails. His five-year-old niece launched herself at him as soon as he stepped foot off the escalator.

Robb came to his rescue--or so he thought, as the other man simply reached down to grab the discarded bag at Sandor’s feet. 

“Hey, Slug,” Sandor said affectionately as little arms and legs wrapped around his chest and neck.

“Sophie!” she insisted, laughing at him. He loved that sound, the way it filled his head with love and good thoughts. He could do without the  _ Sandy _ , but as of now it was only Sophie who was allowed to call him the atrocious nickname. Plus, it was just between him and her, and he liked to allow her that one small concession. He guess it made it special--not to mention he was her favorite uncle, which she also liked to tell people.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “ _ Sophie _ Slug,” he joked as he wrapped his big arms around her tiny body. Her tinkling laughter and shaking head tickled his neck as they walked towards the baggage claim.

“So,” said Robb as they stopped just outside the crowd, waiting for the ominous sound of the bell that announced the conveyor belt would start moving soon. “How was the flight?” 

“Shit--I mean, shoot, it was bad,” he said, cringing at the way Sophie sat up, like a little puppy who had perked up its ears. The bell rang, rescuing him from her five-year-old finger-shaking at his use of a bad word.

After he set her down and took her small hand in his, Sandor was able to read the new text message.

> Sansa: How was your flight?
> 
> **Sandor: Uneventful. The best kind.**

He and Sophie left Robb to wait behind the crowd as they watched for his big duffel bag, people moving out of his way when they saw him coming. He was used to it, had been forced to get used to it as he spent more and more time in public with Sansa. Things nowadays were so different than what they were all those years ago. 

> Sansa: Any pretty stewardesses?
> 
> **Sandor: If there were, I didn’t see them.**
> 
> **Sandor: I spent the whole damned flight looking at the photos you sent me with.**

Sansa had preloaded his phone with an album of her, photos that dated back to 2016 when they had started to get serious after his stay in the hospital. There were several photos of her, of them, over the years since, but on the plane he’d found a few at the end of the album, pictures he had no recollection of, featuring her in her white silk nightie--a close-up of her face and cleavage, a full body shot she took in front of their stand-up mirror, and one sexy pose where she was laying on her back with a finger between her teeth, her eyes looking at the camera on her phone with such a sultry look that he only took that one out when he was alone in his hotel room at night and she’d been on the phone talking sexy to him.

His hand had gotten quite the workout while he’d been gone.

His days had been blessedly busy, though, which made it only slightly easier to keep his mind from constantly wandering back how damned sexy she looked in those photos. The knife show was the biggest event he’d done yet, drawing crowds of thirty- to forty-thousand people each of the three days it was held, so breaks were few and far between. 

And just like Sansa had insisted, people were more interested in his blades than in his face. 

She’d been right when she had encouraged him to do the outdoor shows in Anchorage at the Sullivan Arena, and before that at the outdoor shows in Fairbanks, and even before that when she had urged him to spend time with Gendry at the knife store. Just as she’d said, people wanted to see his work, not ask him about his face.

The first time he’d been at the knife store and a child had walked in with his parents, he had wanted to flee. But he stood rooted to the spot, Gendry at his side, as the kid had quickly gotten over the appearance of Sandor’s scars and had instead been engrossed with his dad in Sandor’s description of the knife making process. 

From then on it was just a matter of building up his confidence in public, with a lot of behind-the-scenes support from his wife.

When Sophie and he saw his big camo green bag, he pointed at it. “Get it, Sophie,” he said, holding back a smile as she looked up at him like he was crazy. But then she walked forward to tug on the handle as it nearly dragged her along with it. He laughed and reached over her head to pick it up, then bent down to wrap an arm around her waist and haul her up like a little sack of potatoes on his hip. 

When they got back to her daddy he said to Robb with a wink and a squeeze to Sophie’s middle, “I’ve got my bags, we can go.” Meanwhile Sophie propped her elbows against his hip and let her face rest on her hands as he walked.

“Uncle Sandy!” she wailed, but he didn’t let her down until they got to the sliding double doors.

“Did you take care of my Sansa while I was away?” Sandor asked her, taking her hand as they crossed the four-lane street in front of the airport. Robb laughed and walked ahead of them, pressing the button on his key chain to open the locks on his minivan.

“Yep! She’s getting awfully big,” Sophie said, a five-year-old mage imparting important knowledge on him. 

He laughed as he lifted her into the back seat, watching as she told him she could get her buckle on all by herself. Indeed she did, and he made sure to tell her how proud he was of her before slinging his duffel bag into the back. His phone chimed again as he climbed into the passenger side.

> Sansa: I’m REALLY missing you, Sandor.

And up popped a photo of her, featuring so much chest that the photo cropped at her forehead, and he had to turn the phone away quickly so neither Robb nor Sophie saw. In the photograph Sansa was biting her lip in that move that always made him think of the things she could do with her mouth, and she’d lowered the front of her bra enough that the dusky pink circles of her nipples showed just above the lace edging.

> **Sandor: Holy fuck, woman.**

“Uncle Sandy, what's that?”

“Yeah,  _ Uncle Sandy _ , whatcha got there?”

Sandor glanced over at Robb who was eyeing him suspiciously, and Sandor realized he must have a rather shocked look on his face. He had his phone cradled to him with the screen hidden in his chest, holding it as though at any moment he was afraid someone was going to try to rip it out of his hands and see what was meant for  _ his eyes only, damnit. _

Loosening his grip, he narrowed his eyes at Robb, saying in a cheerful voice that didn’t match the wary look in his eyes, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Uncle Sandy!”

Sandor swiped to his gallery and brought up a photo of the first knife he came to.

“Nothing, Slug. Just a knife I took a photo of in Florida.”

With a disappointed  _ Oh _ , the little girl aimed her gaze out the window as they began to drive, quickly forgetting the look on her uncle’s face as she struck up a lively conversation about flowers with her daddy, who sat in the driver’s seat smirking as he drove.

> **Sandor: Your brother almost saw that, Sansa. And Sophie.**

She ignored the comment about Sophie.

> Sansa: Robb can mind his own business. I miss my husband.
> 
> Sansa: Are you home yet?
> 
> Sansa: I want you home so bad, you have no idea
> 
> **Sandor: I think I do have an idea.**
> 
> **Sandor: Stop texting me or I might not be able to get out of the van at home without embarrassing myself.**

The ride home wasn’t quick enough, even though the airport was on the same side of town as the cabin where he had lived for decades. 

Now he and Sansa shared the cabin, and the exterior of the addition would be done before the snow fell so they could work on it inside after the baby was born. It was going to be a lot of work but when they were done he would have a real office--and he could take back the corner of his living room--there would be a large dining area for family gatherings, a new master bedroom complete with that huge claw foot tub Sansa had made him buy that was sitting in the shed, and two smaller bedrooms in addition to the current master bedroom.

He was excited to be finished, but not as much as he was excited to share that claw foot tub with Sansa.

When Robb pulled into the driveway they passed Catelyn and Arya, who were just driving out, and moments later Sandor’s phone chimed again. This time the text was from Arya.

> **Arya: Ur life is now a country song. U left something turned on at home. Gooood luuuuuck ;-)**

Sandor followed their car with his anxious eyes as they waved excitedly from inside, Arya especially so, his gaze landing on Robb as they passed.

“They’re leaving?”

Robb looked over at him, glanced in the backseat where Sophie sat, wide awake but quiet, and then back at Sandor. “Queen’s orders,” he said with a wink, and Sandor groaned. He had no doubt about what waited for him inside.

“Let me guess--your mom had Emma and James in the car, didn’t she?” He spoke of the three-year-old twins, babies Sansa had insisted had been conceived on their honeymoon. 

Robb nodded and chuckled. “Go get ‘er, Tiger.” He laughed as Sandor opened his door with a sigh.

It only took a moment before he was blowing Sophie a kiss through the window and lugging his carry-on and duffel bag up to the front door. He unlocked it but turned to Robb, waving at the taillights of the truck as he took a fortifying breath.  _ Anything _ , he remembered of his wedding vows.  _ I will do anything for her _ . 

He had a foot in the door when a very pregnant, already undressed Sansa launched herself into his arms.

“Oof!” 

Sandor landed back against the wall beside the door, his arms going around Sansa as her belly pushed against his pelvis. She was already clawing at his hair, trying to get purchase to drag his face down to her.

“I missed you,” she said, kissing him feverishly, “so much,” grabbing his shirt, “don’t ever,” yanking the shirt off his head, “leave me,” pulling off that infernal white nightie, “again!” 

Sandor was powerless. If there was one thing he’d learned in the years they had been together, the magnetism was not fading. Not only that, but seeing Sansa pregnant, knowing it was his child in her belly, his love that had made her round with pregnancy, his seed that had made her that way, made his blood roar in his ears.

Suddenly his expectation was replaced by a flood of arousal that rivaled her own, and he was picking her up in his arms, feeling the weight of her as she planted kisses across the scarred side of his face and neck, and gripping his hair so hard that he thought his eyes might water. 

When he passed through the door to the bedroom he dumped her on the bed unceremoniously. 

Her hair was wild and the look in her eyes was feral and sexy, and all she wore was a simple white lace bra and matching panties.

_ Damn _ , fire and ice, he thought. She was getting up on her knees, her belly protruding from her front as she knelt closer to the edge of the bed. He already had his belt undone and his jeans down around his legs when she started reaching out to him.

He waved her off and rid himself of the rest of his clothes before stalking her back onto the bed, further and further until she was resting against the headboard. She drew that damned lip into her mouth, showing teeth but pairing it with such a hungry expression that he growled as he pulled the panties off her.

_ Fuck _ , he loved this about her pregnancies. The doctor had cautioned them during the twins’ pregnancy about lots of sexual activity towards the end, but Sansa had carried them to term and her labor and delivery had been textbook. But now, with this pregnancy, her doctor had told them to proceed with normal activities, because Sansa and the baby were both healthy and she, Dr. Howland, had assured them she had no concerns. Plus, Sansa was still a month away from her due date, so:  _ have at it _ .

So now, as he smelled her, he knew she was aroused and wet for him--probably had been before he stepped in the door--he was just as ready for her.

He knelt in front of her, crawling up her body to take her mouth in a passionate, long-awaited kiss. He had missed her while he was in Florida, missed her more than he ever thought he would. 

_Damn her_ , he had sometimes thought, for suggesting he do the knife show. It had been lucrative, yes, and the notoriety was something he never would have gotten otherwise, but _he_ _missed his wife_.

“Turn around,” he growled, and Sansa grinned up at him as she complied. Sandor reached out and unsnapped her bra, tossing it away with one hand at the same time he brought the other around to cup her full breast. He could have sworn they’d gotten bigger while he was away, and he ached to taste them. But  _ first _ \--they had needs.

Sansa was already pushing back into him when he reached down to guide himself into her from behind, a position they had discovered out of necessity during the last pregnancy, and now did quite often just for the fun of it. She whimpered as he slid into her fully, dropping her head as, he could tell, he  _ knew _ , she was suddenly getting what she had ached for, for days. He knew this, because he had felt the same.

When he pulled out and thrust into her she cried out, so he used his hand on her breast to pull her shoulders back towards his chest as he moved, both of her hands resting on the top of the low headboard in front of her as she arched her back away from him. 

“Yes, Sandor,” she gasped. He pinched her nipple, not hard but enough to make her tremble, and she hissed at the sensation. He thrust into her over and over, and slid his hand up her chest and into her hair to grasp her there, pulling her head to the side to give him access to the back and side of her neck. There, just under her hairline, were the fading marks of their last encounter before he’d left. He licked them now, pressing open mouth kisses to the spots as their bodies moved together.

“Mine,” he rasped, the word barely a growl as he let her steady them both with her hands. He brought his hand that had been braced against the wall back to her chest, grasping her other breast in his large palm as he latched onto her neck, sucking the sensitive skin until he knew a mark would show, as she moaned while her climax built inside her.

Sansa was pushing her hips back into him, working herself to reach that goal, and he felt himself nearing it as well, so he dropped the hand from her hair and reached around her hip to find the juncture of her thighs. There, through the auburn curls he knew so well by taste, touch, sight, and smell, he found her sensitive clit and began to rub, side to side just the way she liked.

She came apart in his arms a heartbeat later, but he held her as he thrust one, two, three more times. His orgasm rent a yell from his lungs, and he sunk his teeth down onto her shoulder as his body twitched and spasmed, his seed pumping deeply into her.

Her chest was heaving, and between them he could feel a sheen of sweat, though he figured it was likely from them both. Sansa wiggled her butt against him, ever ready now that she was in the last month of pregnancy, but Sandor slipped out of her, chuckling against her ear before pressing his lips to her turned cheek.

“On second thought,” she said, still out of breath, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across her gorgeous mouth, “Maybe you should go on trips more often.”

Sandor’s laugh reverberated through the small bedroom as he brought his wife down onto the bed to cradle against his chest. 

“I missed you, wife,” he said as he stroked her hair. Her pregnant belly pushed against his hip, her head resting on his chest.

“And I missed you, husband.” 

He felt her smile against his skin. He was content to rest there, just for a little while before he dragged her into the shower with him, until he remembered a part of her body he had been wanting to give some attention. Silently he disentangled himself from her, adjusted a pillow so it was under her head and she could comfortably rest on her side, and he slid down the bed a bit, until he was face to face with her beautiful breasts.

As soon as she realized what he was doing, she laughed. He loved that sound, and it filled his heart with love even as his hands filled themselves with her flesh.

“You’re such a breast man,” she purred, reaching out to where he lay in front of her, touching his hair and running her fingers through the length of it. Sandor chuckled.

“No,” he said, bringing his head closer to them, “Just yours.” She laughed but didn’t stop him when he nuzzled his face against them and took one nipple deep into his mouth. Sansa moaned and leaned back slightly, twisting so that he had better access.

Sandor rose up on an elbow as she continued to stroke his hair, suckling at her breasts, kissing and stroking them, enjoying the touch and taste of them in his mouth, and soon he felt himself harden, the soft skin feeling cool against his cheek as her nipple hardened to a bud between his lips.

This next time, Sansa was on top, and Sandor got to enjoy looking at her and touching her as she moved, her breasts on display for him and him alone.  Afterwards, when she lay on her side with her back to him, she again told him, this time in a sleepy voice, how much she missed and loved him.

As she fell asleep in his arms, he whispered words of love into her ear, her breast in his palm and his heart in hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget - you can subscribe to my name and get notified of when I post more fics. I'll probably stick with Sansan, although I do enjoy mentioning other ships in my stories...
> 
> \- Tormund and Brienne, Brienne and Jaime, Gendrya of course, Robb and Margaery, BRONN and Margaery (could they be any cuter?), Daenerys and Drogo, and I might even throw in some you wouldn't expect (because they come to me when I'm about to fall asleep and then I'm plagued with thoughts of them as I go about my day... it's a sickness). - 
> 
> Thanks again for sticking with me for this! 
> 
> \- Holland <3


End file.
